


The Underground

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: (not main characters), BDSM, Collars, Dom!Coulson, Dubious Consent, Fix-It, M/M, Mention of Child Abuse, Spanking, Sub!Barton, Whipping, minor daddy-kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-27 10:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been a month since Loki, since New York, since <i>Phil</i>.  Clint has been hired out to the FBI for busy-work, and gets loaned to the DEA on the side.  Someone decides he would be perfect for a quick infiltration job to a local BDSM bar (sorry, “dungeon”) and sends him in.  Clint isn’t sure how, but he knows this is going to end badly …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is completely fictional. I have no idea if someplace like The Underground actually exists; I just needed a setting for my story. Also: the “games” played in this fic are a result of my own imagination and do _not_ represent stuff actually done in the BDSM world that I know of. 
> 
> Seriously, I tried to Google this stuff and got nowhere so I made something up that would fit where I wanted the story to go. Constructive criticism is always welcome, but I imagine the whip games played in this story would get you thrown out of most well-to-do establishments. 
> 
> Please, never ever _ever_ use a whip on a living thing until you know what the hell you’re doing. Whips can _hurt_ (that’s kind of the point), and it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings:
> 
> BDSM  
> Dubious consent  
> All I know about dungeons I learned from the internet  
> Whips  
> Collars  
> Spanking  
> Minor Daddy-kink  
> Dom  
> Sub  
> Never use a whip on a living person until you know what the hell you’re doing!  
> Constructive criticism welcome
> 
> A huge THANK YOU to the_wordbulter and Ralkana for being my fabulous betas! Not only did they correct my grammar, but they advised on chapter breaks, googled obscure English phrases, and in every way made this better. Thank you ladies!!! I have no words for the depth of your awesomeness.

Clint stared at the leather collar in horror.

“Oh, _hell_ no.”

His DEA handler shrugged. “It’s this, or I call your Director and tell him you want out.”

“I am doing you guys a favor,” Clint growled. The DEA guy just looked at him. 

Clint ignored his temporary handler and stared at the collar, thinking furiously. This couldn’t be what the Director had in mind when he’d offered Clint work outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not that Clint had bothered to ask what the Director had been thinking – for the past few weeks, whenever he’d said, “Jump” all Clint had asked was, “How high?”

It wasn’t paranoia if everyone actually _was_ waiting for you to turn crazy and start shooting people.

Fury had come to him three weeks ago with an assignment from the FBI. S.H.I.E.L.D., with its endless forms, couldn’t clear him for field work barely a month post-Loki, but the FBI didn’t have that problem. They needed someone with good aim, and Clint’s arm worked just fine. Fury gave him a downgraded security clearance and turned him loose. Clint had raised an eyebrow but agreed – Fury hadn’t bothered to explain what the point of the hire was, but Clint could figure it out for himself. S.H.I.E.L.D. had been a tucked-away organization for the past fifty years – not exactly hidden, and hardly black-labeled, but out of the spotlight. With the attack on New York, that spotlight was shifting, and Director Fury knew how to manage the backdoor politics of such a move. 

By lending Clint out, Fury would gain favor with the other agencies – and through Clint’s skills, S.H.I.E.L.D. would demonstrate why it deserved that spotlight every now and then. At the same time, Fury would have Clint off the Helicarrier and away from anyone who had last seen him at the wrong end of an arrow, _and_ he’d have Clint field-tested and working through some of his issues without it being on the company dime.

Forget two birds – when Director Fury threw a stone he hit an entire fucking _flock_.

But that had been when he’d been working for the FBI. Now, Clint knew Fury just wanted pictures. Evil, terrible blackmail pictures to get him back for that stunt he’d pulled in Bolivia, the one with the chocolate wafer and the ice cream cone. 

Damn the FBI, anyway. They’d had him popping organ dealers in Arizona and taking out gun runners in Pennsylvania, then sub-contracted him out to the DEA for a quick job in Maine. Everything had gone smoothly, so the DEA had pulled him back to New York to deal with coke shippers upstate.

Clint hadn’t argued with any of it at first. Hell, it had been nice to be useful again. None of the agents he worked with knew he’d recently shot and killed a number of his closest associates. None of them had a clue that he’d turned sensitive S.H.I.E.L.D. information over to HYDRA agents, or helped Loki run down the best way to attack and distract the Avengers. 

None of them – because Clint hadn’t talked to _anyone_ about this – knew that he’d told Loki the best way to get into and out of the detention area. Nobody, not even Natasha, knew that that he’d pointed at a piece of paper and practically said to Loki’s face, “There. There’s where you can stab Coulson in the back.”

Agents, good S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, had died because of him. _Coulson_ had died because of him.

Just because Fury had brought him back again didn’t erase the fact that Clint had killed him.

Clint thought burying himself in work would at least help him sleep at night, but it wasn’t enough. He still felt itchy around the edges, keyed up and ready to go. He’d been toying with the idea of asking the CIA for more involved missions, and he hadn’t complained when they’d transferred him over to the DEA 

Which was another tick in the “be careful what you wish for” category. Along with, “I hate you, go away,” and “I wish you would die”.

Clint thought he would have learned that one by now.

He stared at the collar. “Tell me that’s a belt and you got my measurements wrong.”

The DEA guy rolled his eyes.

Clint sighed and reached for the collar. He held it at arm’s length. “You’ve got more for me than a piece of leather and a smile, right?”

His handler – Davidson? Donaldson? – handed him a laptop with a few BDSM sites pulled up and gave him the sell. Apparently, they’d been after a drug dealer named Nicholas Belanger for a couple of years now. The DEA had done everything they could think of to get a bug on him without luck. They’d tried sticking him in a hotel lobby, catching him on the street, and even getting into and out of his limousine. Nothing. They’d even tried disguising DEA agents as prostitutes, but no dice. The man kept a thick wall of hired muscle between himself and every other person on the planet.

Except, apparently, when he went to a local BDSM bar in town. That was when he finally let people get close.

“Dungeon,” Clint’s handler corrected, frowning.

“Excuse me?” Clint asked incredulously. 

“Dungeon,” the guy said again. “A BDSM bar isn’t called a bar – it’s called a _dungeon_.”

“If you’re so good at the terminology, why don’t _you_ prostitute yourself for the job?”

The guy actually rolled his eyes. “We already tried that. I was the hooker he had thrown out in the street. Why do you think we contracted out?”

Clint squinted at the collar. It didn’t mysteriously vanish. “Fuck me.”

That made the guy smile. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have to go that far, but I hear the man does a mean reach-around.”

Clint shook his head. “I’m not into BDSM – I have no idea how to act like someone who knows what the fuck their doing.”

Donaldson rolled his eyes and turned to his computer. “That the whole point – this guy likes newbies; he’d spot someone with experience a mile away.”

Clint stared at him. “Well, I at least need to know the fucking basics!”

Donaldson gave him a grin and spun his computer around. The screen showed the Wikipedia article on BDSM, with a black-and-white picture of a woman wearing a thick leather collar not unlike the one Clint held in his hand. “Ta da! The basics.”

Clint swore at him and kicked him out of the hotel room. He stared at the screen for a minute before rubbing a hand over his face and giving up. Clint skimmed the article while he got changed. Donaldson – Davidson? Clint really couldn’t be bothered to learn the asshole’s name – had dropped a pair of leather pants and a tight black t-shirt in the corner. It took Clint ten minutes to shimmy into the pants, and the shirt was obviously three sizes too small. The collar was a fucking pain to put on, but he managed – he wasn’t about to ask Davidson for help. 

Davidson gave him another twenty minutes to click around the internet, then came back in with a sly grin and a tube of liquid eyeliner.

Clint had the sinking realization that this was all going to end in tears. 

Derrickson was an idiot to think differently. Clint might have been an Avenger for about fifteen minutes, but even _he_ couldn’t work with such a shit plan. No matter how Clint argued, though, the man wouldn’t budge. He ushered Clint out of the hotel room and into the surveillance van while another agent drove them to the scene. Clint kept up the complaints while his handler fitted him for an ear-mic and gave him a panic button disguised as a ring on his middle finger. Finally, five minutes before the drop, Clint let his head fall into his hands and tried to get himself in character.

He was a nontraditional college student, back at school to work his way into a better job. He’d met a girl who was into this stuff, an undercover agent who’d be at the bar – _dungeon_ , he corrected – running the drinks. She had left a few notes for him about his target, and would help point him out if Clint couldn’t find him once he got inside. She’d hand him the tracker when he asked for a beer. Clint was to approach the mark, already in the bar and apparently wearing a blue button-up with black pants, and get him talking. Then it was up to him to figure out how and where to place the tracker.

The electronic device would work on cloth, but the guy was probably not going to wear his bar-slash-dungeon gear to his drug deal tomorrow, so skin would be better.

Fucking perfect.

For a moment, sitting in the van and staring at the thick wooden doors of the warehouse-turned-BDSM-dungeon they had just rolled up to (with an equally thick bouncer standing outside), Clint considered calling it. Nat would come and rescue him. He could call her and she’d make up some sort of S.H.I.E.L.D.-related emergency that needed him in New York, or Bolivia, or even fucking Tokyo. She’d probably finish the op for him, too, if he asked nicely. 

But Nat had already saved his life once this month, and she probably didn’t want to see him again anyway. She was 200 miles away, helping Phil curse his way through physiotherapy. She was better off without him. 

They both were.

He could do this without their help. 

Clint took a deep breath, pasted a nervous-but-excited look on his face, and stepped out of the van.

Approaching the bouncer, Clint let his eyes widen at the man’s size and fumbled for his wallet. “Umm, is there ... is there a cover charge ...?”

The man stared at him. Clint swallowed, which was really fucking awkward around the collar, and handed him the fake driver’s license. The man glanced at it then handed it back to Clint. “You new here?”

Clint nodded awkwardly again, having no problem projecting that this was his first time here. “I know Shirley?” 

The man-monster – seriously, Clint had stood next to the _Hulk_ and he still thought this guy was big – stared at him for a moment more before leaning back and nodding him in. Clint rubbed actually sweating hands on his pants and grimaced when they slid off the slick leather. Reaching forward, he opened the heavy doors and stepped forward into – 

Actually, a pretty classy entranceway. Huh. He’d been expecting a hole. 

Clint glanced around the well lit anteroom. There was a desk covered in a black cloth with a pretty young lady sitting behind it. She had a black ledger in her red-gloved hand and was making a notation. Clint walked forward, nervousness not entirely an act, and studied her closer. She was wearing a form-fitting red dress that looked vaguely bridal. It curved over her breasts, hugged close to her waist and then flared slightly outwards. Her make-up was bold but not overdone, dark without being goth. She looked – well, good. 

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

The woman glanced up as Clint walked towards her and her small desk, and smiled at him. It was a pleasant smile that somehow contained too many teeth and dangerous intentions. 

Clint felt something inside him shiver. 

… maybe it _would_ be as bad as he feared. 

“I’m, uh, new here.”

The lady laughed, a soft, bell-like sound that echoed in the small anteroom. “Oh, puppy,” she said and glanced at him over her book. She raised a delicate eyebrow. “I know.” 

Clint blushed as she ran her eyes over his stupid pants and too-tight shirt, but noticed when she stopped and stared at his collar. “A little formally dressed for a newbie, though.”

“Well, I – I mean I, know Shirley?”

The woman’s smile softened, losing its edge. “Oh, the new bartender? She’s very good.” She tapped her ledger. “What’s your name?”

“Clive Burton?”

She raised her other eyebrow. “Is that a question or an answer, puppy?”

Clint squared his shoulders. “An answer,” he said, more firmly. Somehow, that earned him another wicked smile.

“Excellent. I’ll just write you in, then. Shirley started about an hour ago. She’s at the bar now, I think. Don’t blush at her too hard, or your owner will beat you.” She grinned at him. “I know I would.”

“Uh, okay? And thank you,” he said and turned before she could say – or do – anything suggestive again. His _owner_? _Seriously_? Clint ignored the feeling of her eyes on his back as he walked towards the next set of double doors.

This time, when he stepped through them, it felt more like he had imagined it would – the well illuminated entranceway opened into a dimly-lit interior, and Clint stopped for a moment and stared, knowing it was what Clive would do. 

It also gave him a second to catch his breath for real, because this was too much like falling down the rabbit hole.

The floor was a rich, dark wood that must have originally come with the building. There was a dance floor on the east side of the room where the shadows were longer and a steady mass of people writhed together. The bar, a long wooden structure with brass lamps and beer taps, was to his left. The rest of the room was a kind of relaxed lounge, with soft-looking leather sofas and broken-in loveseats. On the far back wall were the bathrooms and a heavy red curtain. The curtain twitched occasionally as people went in and out, and Clint couldn’t make out much beyond it. There were couples scattered throughout the lounge, often with people sitting on the floor between the knees of their... partners. Clint supposed that was what they were called.

Several people looked up as he stood in the doorway. Some were obviously there with others, but many lounged alone. Clint scanned the faces quickly, taking in details. It didn’t take him long to find his target. 

Nicholas Belanger was conversing quietly with a young woman on one of the black leather couches in the corner of the room. The drug-dealer was an average-looking man in his late forties with enough salt in his pepper hair to be considered respectable. He was dressed in a blue button-up with black pants that probably cost more than Clint made in a year. The Pretty Young Thing he was flirting with sat beside him in a low-cut dress and not much style. She was obviously just as new to this scene as Clint was, but far more excited by the attention.

Clint’s files said the man never traveled anywhere without at least one hired gun, and it didn’t take Clint long to find him. The bodyguard was a well-built guy in his late twenties, early thirties. He had on a simple black-on-black shirt and pants combination that was loose enough to conceal at least two handguns and probably a knife. The man was pretty enough to almost blend in, and was standing at Belanger’s right shoulder. He carefully scanned the crowd while pretending to enjoy the drink in his hand. 

If the overly-cautious Belanger was trusting his life to one man in a bar full of strangers, the bodyguard was probably his best and quickest in a fight. Clint had a garrote in his pocket, one agent he hardly knew as back-up, and a handler in his ear he did not trust at all – so while he figured he probably _could_ take Belanger now, it was a good thing the job stipulated he wasn’t even supposed to try.

Done gawking and being gawked at, Clint turned and headed to the bar. “Shirley” was easily recognizable from her file, and was hard at work – laughing, mixing drinks, and taking tips from the other patrons. Clint edged his way to the bar as the door behind him opened again. He turned to look and watched as five more people walked in. They were dressed in a combination of suits, short skirts and leather, and moved like regulars. The place was starting to fill up. Clint turned back to his contact. 

“Uh, can I have a drink please?”

Shirley-not-actually-her-name smiled at him and asked, “What would you like?”

Clint smiled at her. “Whatever your favorite is. It’s me, um, Clive? From online?”

Agent Shirley gave him a pretty decent wide-eyed squeal. ”Oh! Clive! Wow,” she said, ogling him suggestively from across the bar. “You certainly look better than your Facebook picture!”

Clint’s hand went to the back of his neck. “Thanks?”

“Well, welcome to The Underground,” Shirley went on brightly. “I’m at work right now and will be for another few hours, but I can give you the highlights.” She turned and started pointing around the large room, and Clint leaned in close to hear her directions.

“This is the bar, obviously, and we make the best drinks. And there,” she pointed, “is the dance floor – duh. This is the lounge area,” she indicated the sofas and chairs, “where people like to _relax_.” 

She gave him a wicked smile and used the turning of her head to hide her next words. “He’s been here about an hour, had two drinks but only finished one. He likes to be sober. Our information was accurate; he’s been hitting on newbies all night. The bodyguard is for the main room only; he won’t follow Belanger through the red curtain.”

Clint glanced at her curiously, but she turned as if she hadn’t spoken and pointed across the room. Along the back wall were the men’s and women’s washrooms and the heavy red curtain Clint had noticed earlier.

Shirley went on in a normal tone of voice. “There are the bathrooms. The curtain is where it gets interesting – through it are the private rooms you can rent by the hour. Lana,” she nodded towards a tall and frankly terrifying-looking woman in a long black dress, “is in charge tonight, so see her if you would like to reserve anything.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“There are small single rooms and larger ones meant for,” she did the waggle thing again, “an audience. The common Play Area is back there as well. It’s generally busier than the public space out here, but you can only get in with a known patron, so…”

She winked, and Clint got her meaning. His “friendship” with Shirley had gotten him this far, but it would be up to him to get past the red curtain. If the bodyguard really did stick to the main room, Clint would have his best chance of planting the tracker on Belanger if he could get him past that point.

Clint smiled and made small talk while he paid for his drink, but he kept his gaze moving around the room. He used a sniper’s trick of gathering information, never staring directly at his target – people could feel that – but looking just beyond or in front of them. 

Nicholas Belanger was definitely flirting with the newbies. He had two he talked with occasionally as they came on and off of the dance floor, as well as the woman still sitting on the couch beside him. Shirley’s report had said he would choose one or two to take into the back rooms per night. He liked to use the Play Area – apparently, the man preferred an audience. 

The thought made him shiver.

Clint honestly wasn’t sure if he was turned on or disgusted by the idea. Twenty minutes spent researching the BDSM scene online had been enough to make him distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of Belanger taking him to the Play Area for the night. Some of the things he read had seemed interesting enough, but there was something called a “Saint Andrew’s Cross” and he’d seen a set of whips that looked like something HYDRA would hand out to junior agents.

Not exactly an arousing thought. 

From the bar, Clint stared at the dance floor and watched Belanger from the corner of his eye. The drug dealer was reaching forward and tugging on a braid of the Pretty Young Thing’s hair. As he watched, Belanger pulled harder, making the girl wince. The man smiled cruelly, and Clint swallowed and looked away. 

He was okay. He could do this. 

Clint turned back to Shirley. “I’m going to look around a little, alright? But maybe,” he grinned, “I’ll take a little liquid courage before I go. Can I have a beer?”

Shirley laughed with him. “Yeah, no problem.” She put his glass aside and filled him another. Clint reached forward to take it, feeling and covering the beige-colored transmitter that came with the glass. 

Transferring the tracker to his pocket, Clint walked with his beer into the lounge area. A pretty older woman on a couch looked up, glanced at his collar, and then smiled at him. She had a young man on a leash sitting at her feet, his head tipped back onto her lap. The woman had long red nails and she ran over them over man’s head, scratching gently through his short hair. 

Clint felt another shiver travel up his spine. The guy was practically boneless against her, legs stretched forward on the floor. He couldn’t imagine feeling that relaxed in a public place.

Clint accepted the woman’s smile as an invitation and stepped towards her couch. He perched with his drink on the edge of the black sofa and introduced himself. 

The woman smiled at him and said her name was Candice, and then patted the head of the man at her feet and introduced him as her “pet” Derrick. Candice was obviously a regular. Clint chatted with her few minutes before another man walked up to them. He was tall and dressed very much like Clint, with black leather pants and a dark shirt. He had his hand around the wrist of another man, and Candice introduced them as Terry and Brian.

Brian caught Clint’s attention. He looked… almost normal. He was wearing a pair of nice, if expensive-looking, blue jeans and an off-white button-up shirt that was loose at the collar. His gaze was open and friendly, but he stood beside Terry with complete ease. It... wasn’t what Clint had expected.

He figured “Clive” was new enough to the scene to ask a few questions.

“Everyone seems... very different from what I was expecting.”

Brian laughed, but Clint noticed that he didn’t actually reply until Terry squeezed his wrist. “Not everyone dresses in leather and dark lipstick. Even though,” he turned to ogle at Terry, “it does add to the decor.” 

Terry grinned, and Brian turned back to Clint. “Most of us come here to relax after work.” He eyed Clint a little curiously, glancing at his collar like the receptionist had out front. “You must be new to the area.”

Clint nodded, fighting the urge to fidget with the piece of leather. Something was definitely off about his outfit. The collar, instead of identifying him as one of the crowd, was making him stand out. He looked around. Brian had a collar. Derrick at Candice’s feet did, too, the leash from which was in Candice’s hand. Glancing around the room, Clint saw more than a few people wearing some version of Clint’s heavy leather neck wear, but they weren’t getting the same evaluating looks he was. He didn’t understand what the problem was.

He wondered if he could safely remove it without attracting too much attention.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty new. Moved down from Canada last month. The only person I know who’s involved here is the bartender Shirley, and she’s only been here a week.”

Everyone nodded. They were still giving him funny looks though. Fuck.

Well, nothing he could do about it now.

Clint nodded a little toward Belanger. “Not everyone is easy-going, though. What’s with that guy?”

Candice looked over, then turned back and rolled her eyes. Her fingers never stopped moving through Derrick’s hair, and the man was practically purring at her feet.

“I don’t know, but he comes in every couple of weeks. Lana lets him because he always respects the rules while in the club, and I suppose his money’s good. But I don’t like the way he hits on puppies.” She shook her head then glanced back at Clint and smiled gently at him. “I’m glad you have someone to look after you here in the States.”

Clint nodded, sweating slightly. Did she mean the “owner” that the woman at the desk had alluded to? “Yeah. And, uh, thanks for the warning.”

He made small talk for another few minutes before turning away. He headed back to the bar, dropped his empty glass down in front of Shirley, and shook his head subtly at her questioning glance. Clint looked once more around the room, noting that it was getting kind of crowded. The dance floor was definitely packed. He started walking toward the back wall where the bathrooms were, next to the heavy red curtain.

On the way, he reached up as if to scratch an itch and thumbed on his ear-mic.

“Someone didn’t do their fucking research.”

There was a slight crackle over the line, and Clint had a moment to wish for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s more reliable technology. “What?”

Clint resisted the urge to shake his head, concentrating on weaving his way through the bar towards the bathrooms.

“Something’s off with my outfit. This collar means more than a necklace, people are – ”

“Fuck that,” his handler said, interrupting him. “Your outfit is fine. You’re a newbie shit, you can make mistakes.”

“Not this kind of mistake. Listen to me – I’ve done deep cover before. I’m raising some definite red flags in this. “

“Take the damn thing off, then.” Davidson sounded pissed. “We’re not blowing the mission because you’ve got cold feet.”

Clint growled. “I don’t have cold feet. Listen, I’m getting a serious vibe from these people. If I take the collar off, it’ll mean more than a newbie mistake, it’ll mean something more – something that I think will blow my cover.”

He was almost at the bathrooms. Clint slowed his footsteps as he passed by the heavy red curtain. The room was busy with people who knew the rules; it would be hard to slip across the threshold without someone catching him. Clint had spent too much time tonight establishing himself as a newbie to fake his way through, but he slowed down at the curtain to peek inside. He wanted to get a glimpse of the layout beyond, wondering if he could time it right, cause a distraction maybe, and dart across before someone caught him. 

Someone on the other side was already pulling the curtain aside, though. Clint hung back to peer through. He had a glimpse of a darkened corridor, done in heavy reds and lined with doors, and then a pair of sharp, shocked blue eyes looked up and caught his gaze.

Clint ground to a halt and stared.

Phil Coulson stared back.


	2. Chapter 2

This was it, Clint realized, staring at Phil. He had finally cracked. Maybe Natasha was right and the mind could not exist on cheeseburgers and two hours of sleep a night for long, because there was no way in hell that Phil Coulson was standing in a BDSM dungeon in Upper New York State. 

Especially not a Phil Coulson with an open, white collar shirt under a loose suit jacket and no fucking tie. 

Clint blinked, but the hallucination didn’t waver. Maybe he should to go hit on the bouncer outside, because it was obvious he needed a swift kick to the head and Natasha wasn’t here to oblige.

Then Phil’s heavy, familiar – _solid_ – hand reached up and pinched Clint’s left ear.

“Hey, what the – ”

Phil _twisted_ , and Clint abruptly cut off a curse because _ow_! He was startled enough by his incipient mental breakdown to allow Phil to turn and drag him by the ear through the heavy curtain and a few steps down the hall. And he was enjoying the sight of his erstwhile handler enough that he didn’t protest as hallucination-Phil shoved his back against the red-painted wall and got right in his face.

Clint stared at him.

Phil looked – good, actually. Much better than the last time Clint had seen him, which, to be fair, had been through a ventilation grate in medical, awkwardly surrounded by Natasha and the other members of the team. His suit – and Clint’s eyes kept drifting down to that one undone button because _fuck_ , that was better than porn – hung a little loosely off his frame. There were still dark circles under his eyes, but considering everything he had been through in the past four weeks, Phil Coulson looked good.

He also looked pissed.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed at Clint.

Clint stared at him. Phil felt solid. Very solid. It was possible this wasn’t a hallucination. Making a decision, Clint reached a hand up to his ear-mic and thumbed it on. “It's Barton,” he announced out loud. “I'm taking ten, out.” He switched the mic off to Donaldson’s sputtering rage. 

Phil’s eyes, already hard, went glacial. His gaze snapped to Clint’s ear and then back down to Clint’s face. Clint swallowed and tried to school his expression into something like: “hey, look at that, non-threatening agent here.”

It didn’t work – Phil had never fallen for Clint’s bullshit. 

“Explain,” Phil demanded.

Clint nodded, took a deep breath in, and glanced once around the small hallway. It was currently empty, but that wasn’t going to last. 

“Fury rented me out – I’m working with the DEA.” Clint explained quickly. “There’s a drug dealer by the name of Nicholas Belanger whose been working his way into the big leagues. I’m here to plant a tracker on him and get out. There’s some kind of big deal going down tomorrow, and he’s already identified all the DEA’s regulars.” Clint bit his lip. “They’d tried to get him everywhere else, but he’s very well-guarded. This is the only location they had left.”

Phil’s eyes never left his, the ice cold glint showing no signs of thawing during Clint’s rushed explanation. Clint squirmed. “This guy, Belanger, likes newbies, so they gave me a twenty-minute internet session and sent me in.”

Phil’s expression went tight in a way Clint hadn’t seen in years, because Clint and Phil were long past the point of fucking up this bad. “How long did it take you to realize that wasn’t going to cut it?”

Clint sighed. “About ten minutes. Everyone keeps eying my collar. I figure research got something wrong.”

Phil closed his eyes for a moment, as if drawing strength, and then stepped back. It was only then that Clint realized Phil had crowded him against the wall of the hallway and kept him there. He could hear the babble of voices from beyond the curtain, and the more distant echo of gentle laughter from the corridor ahead, but it all sounded very far away. Only Phil, standing in front of him, felt real. 

Clint kept his eyes on Phil’s face by force of will alone. That open collar was taunting him.

Phil opened his eyes and met Clint’s gaze, then sighed. “I am going to strangle Fredericton. In his office. With the lights on.”

Clint frowned. “I think my handler’s name is Donaldson. Maybe. It might be Davidson. Or Derrickson.”

Phil shook his head. He looked suddenly tired, the bruises under his eyes painfully stark. “Fredericton’s the higher-up in this district. He doesn’t believe in research.” He glanced over Clint’s outfit, and grimaced at the collar. “This isn’t going to work. Belanger is not going to believe you’re a newbie wearing that, and if you've been here for more than ten minutes, you’ve been too conspicuous to take it off.”

Clint opened his mouth to argue, then sighed. Phil knew him too well. “I kinda figured I'd already fucked it up, but Donaldson sounded pissed.” He glanced once at the curtain, then back at Phil. It was hard not to fidget. 

“So I guess the op is ruined. I’ll call it in.” And good riddance anyway. This op was way too close to the surface for him, a glimpse of things he didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to – and that was before he saw Phil.

Phil was obviously here off the clock, and Clint’s mind darted back to what Candice had said, that most of the members here came to relax after work. They were too far upstate for Phil to come here most days – but maybe on weekends, when he could take the time to drive... Clint remembered several times he'd headed over to Phil’s apartment to find the lights dark and his handler out. 

Was this where Phil had been? Maybe sitting on the couches out front, chatting with Candice, maybe with his hands in the hair of a “pet” of his own…

The jealousy wasn’t surprising, because Clint had been aware of his own pathetic crush for years now, but the flare of sudden _want_ was more than he was prepared to handle. Clint didn’t _do_ relaxed in public. To sit at someone's feet, to go boneless against a pair legs and know himself safe and protected… that wasn't something he’d ever thought he’d wanted. 

But he wanted that with Phil. 

If Phil would ever want that with him, which, going by the fury on his face when he had seen Clint invade what was likely his private place – the dungeon he came to just to _avoid_ his annoying charge, probably – was unlikely.

Hell, looking at Phil now – collar open, shoulders loose, and mouth so goddamn kissable it was burning what brain cells Clint had left – it was so far from likely as to be damn near impossible.

Didn’t stop him from wanting it, though.

He was so fucked.

Clint clenched his jaw and avoided Phil’s eyes, raising his hand to the mic in his ear. He would tell Donaldson that something had come up, and he would get the fuck out of Dodge. His handler would be pissed, but the DEA could go fuck themselves. Clint was officially beyond caring at this point.

But even as Clint’s fingers twitched towards his ear, Phil’s hand reached out and stopped him. Clint blinked at him, “What?” 

Phil stared at him for a moment, his expression unhappily considering. Clint knew that look. That was the look Phil got when he was pointing a gun at someone holding a knife to Clint’s neck. Clint took a deep breath and waited for Phil to work through what it was he wanted to do and in what order he wanted to do it.

After a moment, Phil said in a calm, even voice that told Clint how upset about this he actually was, “You said a deal was going down tomorrow.”

It wasn’t a question, but Clint answered it anyway. “Yeah. A big drug shipment. The DEA is worried Belanger is cutting his stash with over-the-counter chemicals. There have been six deaths they know about.”

Phil sighed. “And probably more they don’t.” He looked down for a moment and his shoulders tightened. “So, we need to catch him tonight.”

Clint started to shake his head, “No, fuck Donaldson, I – ” He stopped and stared at Phil. “Wait – what? _We_?”

Phil took a deep breath, and then lifted his head to meet Clint’s eyes. “Yes. Barton, I’m initiating a Code 49.”

Clint’s head spun. A Code 49 was initiated when a local operative on the ground knew more about the situation than the team being sent in. The code gave agents on the ground leeway to change mission parameters to reflect the on-the-scene knowledge provided by the local operative.

“But we – this – I’m not on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission.”

Phil’s eyes lost some of their hardness, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’m S.H.I.E.L.D., and you’re S.H.I.E.L.D. You’re right – Donaldson can go fuck himself. If we’re going to do this op, we’re going to do it right.”

Clint stared at him. He could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, but there was only one option. He squared his shoulders. “What’s the plan, sir?”

Phil held his eyes for a moment then nodded, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw there. “Did the DEA give you a panic button in case you lost your mic?” Clint nodded. “Okay, then first things first – get on the radio and tell Donaldson we’re going silent for the rest of the op.” A faint blush colored the crests of Phil’s cheeks. “I don’t particularly want to broadcast what we’re about to do.” 

Clint had to swallow around the sudden surge of _want_ that rose up in his throat at the sight of Phil’s blushing cheeks. He had to clear his throat twice before he could talk. Phil watched him mercilessly as he raised a hand to his mic and thumbed it on, but he kept quiet as Clint informed Donaldson he’d be improvising from now on and that he’d hit the panic button if he needed to.

Donaldson wasn’t happy about it, but he let Clint make the field decision. Clint knew Phil would never have allowed a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative to get away with that – but apparently, he felt confident that he could watch Clint’s back from here. 

Clint didn’t know what Phil was planning to do, but he sure as hell didn’t want his DEA handler in his ear while they were doing it. 

“Right.” Phil nodded when the mic had been turned off. “So we’ll – ”

Whatever he had been about to say was cut off by the sound of laughter spilling across the curtain. There were footsteps getting closer, and it was obvious that whatever grace period they had been given was over. 

Phil stepped closer to him, his eyes hard and dark again, but not the angry, cold blue of before. “Follow my lead,” he whispered quietly. 

Clint had barely a second to nod before Phil reached up and dug his fingers into the hard leather of Clint's collar. He pulled Clint sharply down, and the younger agent dropped to his knees.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Phil snarled, stepping right into Clint’s space. 

Clint had been on enough undercover missions to read his cues, but he had never been on his knees in front of Phil Coulson before. “I – I’m sorry?” he stuttered, wondering what the hell was going on. Instead of replying, Phil shook him by the collar. Clint gasped, startled.

“Sorry?” Phil asked in a rough voice. “Sorry is for too-hot coffee and forgetting to do your paperwork. This is something else. I _told_ you to wait outside for me.” His voice lowered, and he stepped even closer. “This isn’t the kind of place you can walk into alone. I was worried about you.”

Clint licked his lips and looked up at Phil. It didn’t feel like he was playing a role – this was too close to how his handler sounded whenever Clint fucked up in a dangerous but non-suicidal way. Clint couldn’t help but notice the look of actual concern on Phil’s face. He didn’t think Phil was this good of an actor.

“I – I wanted to surprise you,” Clint said, his voice too honest. “I can handle myself.”

Unexpectedly, Phil’s right hand came up to gently caress his face, even as his left fist tightened around the collar. “It’s not a matter of handling yourself, you idiot,” he said in a rough but fond voice. “It is my _job_ to handle this. That’s what we agreed upon.”

And the thing was – they _had_. Phil had sat him down at the beginning of their partnership, back when Clint was still the fuckup who had been tossed from handler to handler, and had told him in no uncertain terms what he would be expected to do. Clint would be expected to listen to orders and obey commands made in the field; in exchange, Phil would trust Clint to choose his own perch and would listen to him if on-the-ground conditions changed. Phil had promised he would always value Clint’s opinion, but the final call was his.

Clint had disobeyed that directive once, with Natasha, and Phil had been pissed at him for _months_. Not for making the call, Clint had finally understood, but for not checking with Phil first. 

He had still backed Clint’s decision, though. Clint and Nat both owed him for that.

Clint’s heart stuttered in his chest. This was the man he had been in love with for years and would follow to the ends of the earth if he could. Phil’s death had nearly broken him, and Phil’s recovery had finished the job. Clint had known with the formation of the Avengers Initiative that he would be losing Phil as his handler, but he had never dared to hope they could transition into something more. Phil was so far above him, smart and sexy and beautiful, that Clint knew he’d never have a chance of convincing Phil he could be good for him. Hell, Clint wasn’t sure he could be good for anybody.

But Phil had always known how to handle him. Phil knew how to work around his insecurities and trusted him despite his many fuck-ups. Clint loved him for that, and for a thousand other things.

Clint could never lie to him, and now – on his knees looking up into Phil’s eyes – Clint knew he couldn’t keep any of that from his face. 

Phil stared down at him, his gaze softening. The moment between them seemed to stretch forever. 

Behind Phil, the curtain twitched, and the moment was broken. Clint looked over to see Candice walk through the opening with Derrick walking on his leash behind her. She stopped when she saw Clint and Phil, and her face broke into a warm smile. 

“Phil! How wonderful. I’d hoped he was yours, but it didn’t seem polite to ask.” 

Phil cleared his throat and stood up straight, his right hand falling away from Clint’s face. His left stayed clenched around Clint’s collar, though, and Clint couldn’t help but be grateful for that. 

It felt reassuringly like an anchor. Clint was slipping down the rabbit hole.

“Good evening, Candice. Yes, this is – well...” Unexpectedly, he blushed. “He was supposed to wait for me outside. We’ve had words about this,” Phil said, looking down to give Clint another glare.

“Ahh,” Candice said, her tone knowing. “From all you’ve said about your young man, I can well believe it.” She smiled at Clint, who barely noticed. He was too busy staring at Phil.

Phil had _talked_ about him? 

No – it had to be some other person, some crush he had. There was no way Phil left the city and drove upstate to sit in this bar and talk about _work_. 

Clint ignored the flare of jealousy of the idea of Phil wanting someone – anyone – who wasn’t him. That was stupid, because Phil deserved someone who would appreciate him – every side of him. Who understood this world, maybe.

And there was no reason to think it was only a crush. Phil came here regularly, after all. He probably had someone he saw all the time, someone who knew what to do and how to act. Clint bet he had a guy who was well-trained, too, not some stupid kid with a smart mouth like Clint. 

“Are you coming to the back?” Candice asked, as if from far away. “We haven’t had the pleasure of watching you work in ages.” 

Phil frowned and looked down at Clint. His face was blank of clues, and Clint wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find. He curled his toes inside his heavy boots, trying to keep all emotion from his face. 

“I’m not sure,” Phil said slowly, considering. “It’s his first time here, after all, and he hasn’t exactly been a good boy. We’ll have to discuss whether he deserves to head into the back.” He looked back at Candice and shrugged. “We’ll see. You’ll be there?”

Candice grinned wickedly. She tugged the leash in her hand, and Derrick gave her a heavy-lidded grin. She laughed. “Yes, we’ll be there.”

Phil nodded, and Candice walked around them, heading down the corridor with Derrick following behind. When they were gone Phil looked down at Clint. His hand remained fisted on Clint’s collar, and Clint wanted to stay that way forever.

“I knew when we turned your comm off that this was going to cross the work-life border,” Phil said evenly, his eyes fixed on Clint’s. “But I’d be lying if I said I’d never pictured you here.”

Clint swallowed. “Here, sir?” 

“On your knees, in this place, with my collar around your throat,” Phil went on as if he were discussing the weather. “We don’t have much time, so let me give you the basics. The collar means you belong to me. It’s the equivalent of an engagement ring – a promise, but one that can be taken back. While you wear it, I am in charge, but that doesn’t mean you have to do what I say. I know you’re a smartass, Clint, and I wouldn’t expect you to be anything else.” Phil’s upper lip twitched. “But there are incentives for behaving well, and it’s my job to read what you want and give it to you.”

Something about the weight of Phil’s hand at his throat compelled Clint to honesty. “You’ve always given me what I need.”

Phil looked at him, and his thumb caressed the length of Clint’s jaw. Clint shivered. 

“I’ve tried,” he confessed. “I haven’t always succeeded, though. I’ve been ignoring the tension between us for a while now.” 

Clint flushed, dark and ugly, to the roots of his hair. _Fuck_. He thought he had done a better job of concealing it, that no one but Natasha had known.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, looking away. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I didn’t… I knew you’d never…”

Phil’s hand tightened. He forced Clint’s head up. “No,” Phil said sharply, “it is _my_ fault for keeping silent, not yours. I was wrong to ignore it, I – ” He hesitated. “I was afraid, for a long time, that I was only seeing what I wanted to see.”

Clint’s ears were ringing, but Phil went on. A muscle in his jaw clenched and his voice dipped an octave. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, now. Since I brought you in, if we’re being honest. I never thought you’d want someone like me, and it took me a long time to believe that maybe you did.”

Clint stared at Phil in disbelief. “Someone like you? You’re perfect.”

It was Phil’s turn to blush. “Hardly. But I’ve kept quiet because of, well – ” Phil looked around the deserted hallway. The walls were dark red and seemed to hold secrets. Music from the dance floor echoed from their right beyond the curtain, and the faint sound of something more primal could be heard coming from the corridor to their left. 

“This is part of who I am, and I wasn’t sure how to introduce you to this world.”

Clint swallowed. “I can learn,” he said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “I – you don’t have to take anyone else.”

Phil looked back at him, surprised. He studied Clint’s face for a moment, and then his lip twitched again. “Jealous boy.”

Clint’s blush deepened. “I’ve never thought about this,” he confessed, then amended, “I’ve thought about _you_. Fuck, I’ve thought about you too much. But not – ” He glanced around and swallowed. “Not this.”

Phil stroked Clint's face again. “I can make it good for you. I’ve spent so long planning how to make it good for you.”

Clint looked up into his eyes and felt a pit of yearning open in his belly. “Okay,” he breathed. 

They stayed there for a moment, locked together, before Phil smiled with the side of his mouth and tilted his head towards the curtain. “Come on,” he said, tugging gently on Clint’s collar to bring him to his feet. “Let’s go get a drink and eyeball the mark. I bet if we demonstrate how untrained you are, this Belanger person won’t be able to resist.”

Clint swallowed. “Untrained can be sexy?” he asked, stumbling to his feet. 

Phil eyed him. “Clint, _you_ are sexy. Untrained, you are delectable. Don’t make me repeat in public how many times I’ve fantasized about training you, or we won’t get anything done.” 

Clint’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips, met Phil’s eyes, and then grinned. He was thrown and off his stride, but cockiness was an easy and familiar vibe to slip in to. He sidled up to his handler and daringly put one hand on his hip. Phil was warm, and his pants were soft. “You don’t say,” he purred.

Phil met his gaze and held it, something firm, strong, and sexy as hell in his eyes. “I do say.”

Clint had to close his eyes for a moment to gather his strength. “Fuck,” he exhaled. 

Phil grinned at him, something wicked in his smile, and then twitched the curtain open. He placed his palm on the small of Clint’s back and guided him back into the main room.


	3. Chapter 3

The lounge was full, the dance floor crowded to bursting, and more than a few patrons glanced over as Phil and Clint crossed the room. Several raised their hands or glasses in Phil’s direction, and he acknowledged them with a nod. Phil’s hand stayed steady at Clint’s back, warm and reassuring, and Clint allowed himself to be guided to the bar. 

Shirley was still there pouring drinks, and she looked over curiously as Phil found them a place at the bar. Clint gave her a reassuring smile, glanced at Phil and then back at her, and winked. Shirley nodded slowly, and then took their orders with a smile.

Phil ordered for both of them and handed Clint his drink when it came. Clint thought he saw a piece of paper pass between Phil and Shirley, but he couldn't be sure – Phil was a master of sleight-of-hand. Phil didn’t comment on it, just steered Clint back to the low leather couches where Candice had sat with Derrick. Brian and Terry were still there, and looked to be on their second drink.

“Phil!” Terry said, grinning widely. He stood up to shake Phil’s hand and then glanced curiously at Clint. “So he _is_ yours. Candice was taking bets.”

Phil rolled his eyes and sat down at the end of the couch, pressing on Clint’s back to indicate he should perch on the armrest. Clint had a momentary urge to slide to the floor at Phil's feet, but he wasn't quite ready for that. Besides, they were still on an op. 

“Yes, he’s with me. We’ve had a discussion about rules already, but it’s his first time here. Thank you for keeping an eye on him for me.”

Terry winked playfully, his head steady on Brian’s arm. “It was hardly a challenge. Clive, was it?”

Clint opened his mouth to say “yes” when Phil beat him to the punch. “It’s Clint, actually,” he said smoothly, and Clint couldn’t stop his look of shock. Phil gave him a fond glance, stroking his hand up and down Clint’s back reassuringly. Clint bit his bottom lip, but kept quiet.

Either Phil was concerned he wouldn’t be able to remember Clint’s alias in the heat of the moment, or he was setting the stage for bringing Clint back here one day sans drug dealer. Clint wasn’t sure which option he preferred – both scared the hell of him. 

It also meant Clint had to be on his best behavior _and_ act like himself, so no one would suspect he was a pod person if Phil ever did bring him back. But he also had to be the kind of guy Phil would be willing to date, so – 

Phil leaned in to murmur in Clint’s ear. “You’re over-thinking.”

Clint frowned and shifted his shoulders mulishly. “I always knew you were telepathic. I’m telling Fury.”

He could hear Phil’s smile even if he couldn’t see it. “He already knows.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Figures.”

Phil pressed his hand into Clint’s spine. “We’re attracting attention,” he murmured. Clint looked over to see Belanger watching them. His eyes were hungry, and he was ignoring the girl at his side. It was the same newbie from earlier, and she didn’t look pleased to be ignored. 

Belanger eyed Clint. He grinned when Phil raised an eyebrow, and rose to his feet. The bodyguard watched but didn’t move from his place behind the sofa, and Phil’s shoulders straightened as the drug dealer walked toward them. Clint felt the hand at his back flex.

Terry and Brian noticed Belanger and stiffened, but the man ignored them and looked over at Phil. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said, extending an arm.

“Phil.” Clint’s handler said, and inclined his head. He didn’t offer his hand, and Belanger’s expression seemed to freeze. His arm hung awkwardly in the air for a moment, and then slowly lowered to his side. 

“Just ‘Phil’?” he asked, going for a friendly tone and missing by about a mile. 

Phil nodded, his face blank. “And you are – ?”

Belanger grinned. “Sorry, how rude of me – Nicholas Belanger. Very nice to meet you… Phil.” He rolled the name around in his mouth. “I confess I’ve heard good things about you. People are impressed.”

Phil held his eyes and gave the drug dealer his very blandest smile. “I’m afraid I haven’t heard the same. Lana wanted to bar you from the dungeon, I understand – something about a complaint issued by one of the novices.” It wasn’t a question.

Belanger’s smile turned hard. “Lana is very protective of this place, which is a good enough trait in a businesswoman. I come here for my own pleasure, though, and my money is good.”

“A reputation speaks louder.”

“So it does.” Belanger's smile grew teeth. “Shall we put yours to the test?”

Phil arched an eyebrow at him. “Oh?”

“Your partner,” Belanger flicked a hand at Clint, “he is rather untrained, is he not?”

Phil’s voice didn’t change, but there was an edge to his eyes. “Completely.”

Belanger cocked his head. “And yet you managed to collar him?”

Clint blushed, but Phil answered evenly. “You make him sound like an animal. A sub is not a horse to be broken.”

Belanger grinned. “But they are so much fun to ride.” 

The two men locked eyes for a moment, and then Phil stood up suddenly. Brian and Terry blinked. “Very well – a demonstration, then?” Phil asked.

Belanger smiled. “A demonstration!” He indicated with his left hand, and the girl he had been sitting with stumbled up from the couch and hurried over.

Phil frowned at her, concern evident on his face. “All club rules will be respected,” he said firmly. 

Belanger gave him a wounded look. “Of course!” He indicated the curtain. “Lead the way.”

Phil inclined his head and turned toward the curtain. On the way, he nodded reassuringly at Terry and Brian, who remained seated. Clint noticed as he got up to follow that Belanger’s bodyguard frowned but stayed where he was. Shirley’s intel seemed good. 

“Sir?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth as they walked toward the curtain. 

“A demonstration of strength, precision, and style,” Phil murmured back. “I’m thinking.” They walked another few steps, and then Phil nodded. “How do you feel about whips?” 

Clint had a mental flash of his circus days – they’d had a man with a bullwhip for a while. Clint had liked to hide at the top of the tent poles and watch as he practiced. He hadn’t been very good, but he could still make an almighty _crack_ with the whip when he chose. Clint used to pretend the man was Indiana Jones and would take him away from the circus to hunt treasure for a living. Clint had snuck down once to try and crack the whip himself, but had only managed to split open the side of his face.

The man had found him bleeding in the corner and beat him for touching his things. Clint had never watched the man again. 

“Um, you’ll be handling the whipping part, right?” Clint asked, remembering the embarrassment he had felt, even worse than the beating after. 

Phil nodded, “Yes.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow at his handler. “Are you any good?”

Phil’s steps never faltered. “Yes.”

Clint laughed, trying to hide his nervousness. “Of course you are – I shouldn’t have asked.”

Phil’s upper lip quirked in a smile. “I’m not good at everything.”

Clint snorted. “Yes, you are.” 

Phil looked over at him and quirked an eyebrow. Clint licked his lips at the picture Phil made. His collar was still open, his eyebrow raised, and despite the situation, the angle of his jaw was relaxed. He was comfortable here, Clint realized – loose in a way he couldn’t be at work. Clint had always found his handler’s competence sexy, but this was a whole separate level of hot.

Clint knew with a flash of insight that he was going to be utterly, embarrassingly hard for the rest of the night. 

When they reached the curtain, Phil put his hand on Clint’s arm to stop him, and reached around to hold the fabric open. He motioned Clint inside and then held the fabric for Belanger to take. Phil placed his hand on the small of Clint’s back once they were through and steered him down the hall. 

Clint shivered from that one, careful point of contact. 

This time, they walked past the bend in the hallway and the various closed doors. Around the corner, there was another heavy curtain and again, Phil brushed it aside. He held it for Clint then walked them forward into a room that was larger than Clint had expected, easily twenty-by-thirty feet.

At first glance, it appeared cluttered, and Clint’s mind automatically logged entrances and exits the way he had been trained – the curtain they had entered through and a fire door with an alarm across the room were the only two points of egress. There were no ventilation shafts visible. Furniture and people were scattered around the room, and Clint’s eyes found and categorized several potential weapons before he had to blink and re-survey the scene.

Phil’s hand at his back pressed tight as he noticed Clint was overwhelmed. 

No one else would have been able to tell, but that was why Clint liked working with Phil the best. He noticed things. It had been hot even before Clint fell for more than Phil’s skills on an op.

Clint took a moment, secure in the knowledge that Phil was steady beside him, and surveyed the room again.

At second glance, it wasn’t actually that crowded. There were five people present, Candice and Derrick included, and three pieces of heavy equipment that looked bolted to the floor. There was a pommel horse – Clint was familiar enough with that from the S.H.I.E.L.D. gym, though S.H.I.E.L.D.’s wasn’t polished black leather – and the promised Saint Andrew’s Cross. There was also a large wooden wheel with leather restraints strapped on it that hadn’t been on any of the websites Clint had perused earlier in the night.

No one was using the larger pieces of equipment, but Candice had Derrick suspended from the ceiling with a pair of leather-and-chain restraints, and there were two women casually playing cards over the stretched-out body of a naked man strapped to a table in the corner.

Clint took in the entire scene and shivered. Phil came here. Phil came here _all the time_. Clint had enough material to fuel his pathetic midnight fantasies for _months_.

He looked over at his handler and saw Phil watching him, noting how Clint took in the room, identifying the areas that seemed to capture his attention. His face was carefully blank, but Clint could see the proprietary heat in his eyes. 

Clint felt a momentary flush of shame to have invaded Phil’s secret place, but then Phil met his eyes and smiled. It was a dark smile, filled with promise and fire, and Clint felt dizzy with it.

Holy fucking god.

Phil really _did_ want him here. 

Clint swallowed, and it felt like all the blood in his body rushed to his dick. He was suddenly, _painfully_ hard, and he hoped Phil knew what he was doing or else Clint was going to come right fucking now and screw the rest of the op.

Belanger followed them into the room. People looked up as Phil entered, and a few – like Candice – met his eyes and smiled. At the sight of Belanger, however, those few welcoming looks shuttered. A tension fell over the room.

Belanger grinned like a shark, obviously basking in the attention. He looked to Phil and gestured. “So,” he asked, “what did you have in mind? The pommel horse, perhaps?”

Phil gave the black leather a considering look. “That should work as a backdrop.”

He glanced at Clint and indicated he should follow, then turned and walked toward a black cabinet standing next to the wall. It was floor-length and looked like a thin wardrobe secured with a keypad lock. Phil cupped his left hand around the pad to hide his fingers and punched in the combination. The cabinet was directly beside the chains where Candice had Derrick suspended. Clint watched Candice give her “pet” a gentle stroke on the cheek before she turned to look at Phil.

“Exactly what game do you think you’re playing?” she asked quietly as the lock clicked open. She sounded concerned, and Clint wanted to reassure her Phil knew what he was doing. He opened his mouth to reply, but he was stunned into silence as the cabinet doors swung open. There weren’t very many things that could render him speechless, but Clint’s mouth went dry as stared at the black lacquered interior. 

Whips, chains, belts, wheels, and cogs lined the cabinet, along with a few things Clint couldn’t recognize. Phil made a humming noise in the back of his throat and trailed a finger along the differently-shaped handles. Clint choked back a groan as he watched those elegant fingers carefully assess the options. He could see that each item was lovingly maintained – the leather looked warm and oiled, and the stainless steel gleamed.

“I am going to teach Mr. Belanger a lesson,” Phil said in response to Candice’s question. His tone was even and sure, perfectly controlled, and Clint felt another shiver of want run up his spine. “I am going to embarrass him so thoroughly that he will never return.”

Candice huffed an angry breath. “I have no doubt that you can beat him, Phil; your skills are not in dispute and it’s obvious this boy adores you,” she said, indicating Clint, who blushed. “But think about this for a moment – Belanger is going to leave here tonight, and what? He’ll take it out on someone, Phil, that girl he brought with him or someone else. He’s going to kill someone after this.” 

Her voice was flat but sure, and it made the hairs on the back of Clint’s neck stand up. This was a woman who was used to giving orders and knowing what to do. Clint wondered why S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t tried to recruit her before.

Phil turned to looked at her. His expression lost none of its edge – he met her gaze and held it. “That is not going to happen, Candice,” he said evenly. Clint couldn’t see any kind of signal, but after a moment of staring, Candice’s expression relaxed.

“You’re taking care of it then?” She looked relieved, adding, “Good.” The tension in her shoulders eased, and Clint understood how worried she had been. “Very good. I’m glad, Phil. He’s done too much damage already.” Her face creased into a sudden smile, and she grinned wickedly at Phil. “In that case: do us proud.”

He raised an eyebrow, and Candice laughed. Phil turned and caught Clint’s eye. “I think we can manage that,” he said.

Clint blushed harder.

Candice shook her head and looked back at Derrick. He had been left literally hanging while they talked, but he didn’t seem to mind. With a wave, she walked back to her pet, and Clint refocused on Phil.

He watched his handler turn back to the cabinet and select the whip he wanted. Even Clint could see it was a gentler option, clearly made of some kind of smooth leather with a single tail. He tilted his head when Phil turned around with the whip in hand. 

“Deerskin,” Phil explained, letting Clint look his fill. The leather was dark brown and looked butter soft. Phil held the whip by the handle, and it fit easily in his palm, the tail hanging down but not quite touching the floor. “It will still hurt, but it shouldn’t sting as hard. Cow leather gives more of a slap, and braided tails can injure if not used properly. Lana doesn’t stock rubber tips – they’re very dangerous.”

Clint nodded absently, taking in the information but letting his attention focus on the leather in Phil’s hand. He reached out hesitantly. “Can I – ?”

Phil quirked a smile and nodded. Clint rubbed his index finger carefully along the leather, carefully crafted and beautiful. “It looks pretty,” he said. “Like a work of art and not – ” Clint shrugged, trying to hide how uncomfortable he felt. “Not like something used by the bad guys.”

“It is a work of art,” Phil agreed. His eyes were calm but focused. He held Clint’s gaze. “This is used with consent, and only with consent. This is a brand new arrangement, and we don't have time to go into safe words. You say stop, we stop. Understood?”

Clint hesitated and glanced over his shoulder at Belanger. The drug dealer was standing by the pommel horse, his hand on the shoulder of the girl he’d brought in. He was staying something in a low tone, and she was blushing. 

“Clint,” Phil’s voice drew his gaze back to his handler. Phil hadn’t moved, and his eyes were serious. “I mean it. If you want it to, this stops. We’ll find another way.”

Clint wanted to nod and agree, but he always tried to avoid lying to Phil. The deerskin whip didn’t look that bad, and Belanger was obviously dangerous. Clint was a big boy – even if this didn’t work for him, he could handle it for a couple of hours. The DEA weren’t complete idiots, even taking into account Dickson’s lack of planning ability. If they said this was the only way, then Clint wasn’t going to let a little squeamishness destroy the mission.

But Phil’s gaze turned hard, as if he could read the thoughts on Clint’s face. He stepped forward into Clint’s space and spoke in a low voice. “If you think for one second that I am going to do this without your explicit permission and willing encouragement, then I am aborting the mission under the parameters of Code 49.” 

Clint stared at him. Phil didn’t blink. “I can handle a little –” he tried.

“No,” Phil said in a voice like iron. He squeezed his lips together tight enough to blanch. “Clint – this is something that means a lot to me. It’s something I’ve thought about sharing with you, but only if you agree to it. I would much rather not be doing this in the middle of an active mission, but I’ll work with what I have. I am going to do my best, but I need to know that you understand how serious this is for me – if you’re not enjoying yourself, then what I’m about to do to you is wrong. I won’t do that. I won’t dare break the trust you have in me. I need to know that you _will tell me_ if this is not working for you, mission parameters or not. Do you understand?” 

Clint stared at him. He knew how important Phil’s trust was to him, but he’d never realized how much Phil valued his trust in turn. He blinked and nodded. “Okay,” Clint said, feeling it down to his bones. “This stops if I want it to. I understand.” 

Phil held his gaze a moment more and then nodded. Carefully, Phil stepped back. Clint watched him and tried to understand what was happening here. This wasn’t HYDRA. Phil wasn’t going to whip him just to make him bleed and demand his security code. This was...

Clint really didn’t know _what_ this was. 

But Phil was looking at him with heat in his eyes again, and Clint liked that look. So he loosened his shoulders and summoned a smirk. “Willing encouragement, you say?”

Phil’s upper lip quirked and his eyes danced. “Damn straight. Now – strip.”

Clint’s mouth fell open. “Sir?”

Phil’s expression might have been blank, but Clint could see the devil dancing in his eyes. “You heard me. Strip. Leather is meant for skin, not clothes. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

Clint couldn’t help glancing around the open room. The two women were still playing cards over the guy in the corner, and Candice was spinning Derrick from his wrists attached by chains to the ceiling. Belanger had finished talking to his girl and was watching them from the pommel horse. Clint wasn’t skin-shy, but he also wasn’t used to stripping down in front of complete strangers when not in a locker room.

It would have helped to remember this was a mission, but the heat in Phil’s eyes kept dragging him back. Phil was right – their timing sucked. But while Clint had experience dissociating his mind from his body during torture, he didn’t _want_ to go away in his head while Phil looked at him like that. He wanted to be 100% here with him when they did this.

Phil had said this was important to him. Clint didn’t want to run away from that. After all, Phil might figure out Clint wasn’t worth his time and never look at him like this again. Clint would take what he could get.

Clint started stripping off his clothes. The shirt came off first, tight black tee pulled up and over his shoulders. He undid the laces on his boots and toed them off, shoving them into a corner. His hands fell to his belt and hesitated for only a moment until his fingers started working the buckle. He popped the button on his leather pants and started the process of getting them off. It wasn’t particularly sexy – leather pants were a _pain_ – but Phil’s eyes never left his. 

He managed to get a hand inside the pocket and palm the beige tracker while he gyrated, squirming until he finally kicked the pants on top of his pile. Clint’s hands dropped to his boxer-briefs. They were comfortable with an elastic waist and were his preferred underwear on missions where gymnastics were required. Plus, they had looked okay under the uncomfortable leather pants, so Clint hadn’t had to ask Dickson for another pair. 

Phil’s voice cut in when Clint started to pull at the band. “That’s enough,” Phil said, a warm thread to his voice Clint had never heard before. Phil was aroused.

“Socks off, please,” Phil said, calm as you please, but Clint had his number now. He met Phil’s gaze head-on and grinned as he toed off his socks. 

“Where do you want me, sir?” he asked as he finished, smirking. 

Phil’s smart reply was interrupted by Belanger. The drug dealer walked over, and Clint could feel his slimy eyes crawling up his back. 

“Very nice, but so undisciplined. You’re going to have to work on that, Phil.”

The look on Phil’s face promised icy death, but this idiot didn’t know him well enough to catch that. Clint felt his own momentary shame buried in a surge of pride. Phil was totally hot for him, and he wasn’t going to take any of Belanger’s shit.

“What I do on my time is my own business,” Phil replied smoothly. “I believe this was a demonstration of skill, not training.” He stepped towards Clint and put a gentle hand on his wrist. Clint shivered at the contact, and Phil held him for a moment – offering reassurance, Clint thought – before tapping Clint’s hand once. Clint opened his hand and passed the beige tracker to Phil, who quickly pocketed it. 

Belanger smiled, oblivious. “Of course, of course.” He leaned around Phil and let his eyes trail over the whips, grinning when his gaze landed on a particularly nasty-looking thick one. “Ah, no one has claimed my favorite, I see. Excellent.”

Clint watched Phil’s eyes narrow in distaste and dart to the girl by the pommel horse. She was young – in her mid-twenties, Clint would guess – and obviously as new to this as Clint was. Still, she was smiling and looked into it, and Belanger had agreed to obey by the “House rules”, whatever they were. Knowing Phil and what he had said about Lana, Clint was sure neither of them were about to be hurt too badly. 

“So, what will it be?” Belanger mused as he turned away from the cabinet and shut it behind him. “Strips and Stripes? Birdie in Hand?”

Phil shrugged. “Strips and Stripes first, Birdie in Hand to follow – provided all parties consent.”

Belanger rolled his eyes. “Of course.” 

He walked back to his date and whispered in her ear. She blushed and began to strip, carefully folding her leather skirt and white, nearly see-through blouse. Underneath, she was wearing a pair of thigh-high stockings and a black lacy bra that had been easy to see beneath the blouse. Under Belanger’s instruction, she left those on.

Belanger turned to Phil and cocked an eyebrow. “If you don’t object, I’d like to go first.”

Phil nodded evenly, his eyes on the girl. Clint would have been jealous, but he suspected Phil was concerned for her safety. “Be my guest.”


	4. Chapter 4

Belanger pointed and the girl walked up to the pommel horse. She hesitated for a moment then leaned over it, offering her ass in the air. Her underwear was lacy black to match her bra, and even Clint could agree that she made a pretty picture. 

Belanger stepped back behind her. Clint looked around the room to see everyone was watching now. In the corner, the card game had paused, and Candice had taken Derrick down from the ceiling. They were on the floor by the cabinet, Derrick sitting between Candice’s legs. She was rubbing her hands along his arms, warming him and giving comfort all at the same time. It looked nice.

Clint refocused on Belanger just as he raised his arm with the whip, but before he could strike, the heavy curtain swept aside and a tall woman stepped inside. 

Clint stared at her. It was the same woman Shirley had pointed out to him before, the one in the black, high-collared dress that wrapped around her chest in a tight corset and fell to the floor in an A-line from her waist. She had the body to pull it off, light and lithe, her caramel skin flawless. Her face was all lines and angles, the sharp nose and high cheekbones pointing to a Spanish ancestry. 

She drew the eye of every person in the room, and even Belanger slowly let his arm fall to his side as he stared at her.

She surveyed the group of them, her gaze resting for a moment on Clint and lingering on Phil, and then coming to rest on Belanger. 

“Mr. Belanger. What exactly is going on here?”

The drug dealer opened his mouth to explain, but Phil beat him to it. He stepped forward and inclined his head. “Lana. My apologies – I should have informed you.”

Lana – she looked, if it were possible, even _more_ terrifying in person than she had across the bar – leveled her gaze at Phil. “Yes, you should have. The two of you have a wager, I understand? You should both remember there is no gambling in my house.”

Phil shook his head, “No wager, I promise. This is only a friendly competition of skill.”

Belanger smiled and glanced at Phil. “Well, we may perhaps bet a drink? We are playing Birdie in Hand next, after all.”

Phil looked at Lana, who glared at the drug dealer and then turned back to Phil. She raised her eyebrows, and Clint got the impression she really didn’t like Belanger. She seemed to be asking Phil if he could win.

Phil held her gaze, his upper lip curling into a smile. Lana didn’t say anything, but she turned back to Belanger.

“Very well,” she said to him. “A demonstration of skill, and a drink for the victor. I will judge the contest – agreed?”

Belanger frowned, but no one objected. 

Lana moved to the back of the room, well out of the way of Belanger’s whip, and seated herself on a low wooden bench. Clint watched her sit down before turning back to Belanger.

The drug dealer took his whip in hand and rubbed it, obviously warming up the leather. When it was ready, he walked a few paces around, clearing the space, and pointed his whip away from the girl and toward the curtain. He cocked his elbow, and in a flash the whip was flying – the resulting _crack_ was enough to make Clint flinch. 

The girl on the pommel horse looked suddenly nervous, and Phil frowned. Belanger only smiled.

He stepped back behind the girl and glanced over his shoulder at Phil. “Strips and Stripes,” he said, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “Three down, three across.” 

Clint thought he sounded like a hustler calling out pockets in pool. Phil nodded, his eyes serious, and Belanger grinned. He turned back to the girl.

Clint watched her take in a breath. She held it.

The whip came down with another loud _crack_. The girl jumped, and the resulting _snap_ of the whip hitting skin was deceptively soft after the loud sound. The girl lay there, as if stunned, and for a moment Clint was convinced that Belanger had missed. After a moment, though, a line of red skin rose along the path of the whip. 

It was long and thin, and laid out north-to-south on the girl’s back, curving up from the roundness of her ass. She made a soft “oh” sound, surprised and breathless, but Belanger didn’t give her much chance to recover.

_Crack!_ The whip flew again, and another line of red appeared down the center of her back. _Crack_ , and a third line rose from the white skin, perfectly parallel to the other two.

The girl stood there for a moment, awkwardly draped over the pommel horse. She moved to get up, making a soft, pained sound in the back of her throat, but Belanger stopped her with another crack of the whip.

Lana made to get up, but the girl obediently lay back down on the horse. Lana settled carefully onto her seat, her face neutral. Belanger waited a moment, and then raised his elbow. This time he stood at an angle, and when the whip flew, the mark it left on the girl’s skin was horizontal, perpendicular to the other three.

_Crack!_ _Crack!_ The whip flashed two more times, each mark perfectly parallel to the first. In the end, the girl’s back was a chessboard of three-by-three lines, each raised and puckered, one bleeding slightly at the edges.

Belanger stopped and surveyed the room. He had a pleased smile on his face, and he was breathing hard. There was an obvious bulge in his pants, but he made no move toward the girl. No one said anything, but there was a collective sense of _well done_.

As obvious as it was that no one liked Belanger, it was equally apparent that what he had just done required skill, and lots of it. 

Still, Phil was frowning. Clint followed his gaze to the girl, and saw her rising unsteadily from the pommel horse. 

Clint remembered that this was her first time. She was obviously in pain, and Belanger was doing nothing about it. He looked back at Lana.

She was already moving out of her seat and was beside the girl a heartbeat later, her touch careful and gentle on the woman’s shoulder. Belanger frowned, but Lana ignored him, guiding the girl carefully to her feet and settling her gently on a pillow by the wall. 

Lana turned to glare at Belanger once the girl was down. The drug dealer rolled his eyes, but he went to the girl. There was a pitcher of fruit juice with ice on a small table in the corner by the emergency exit along with a few plastic glasses. Belanger fetched the girl some juice and held it out to her, and Clint looked away.

He breathed out and tried to get his head around what he had just seen. Okay – so that was a whipping. It looked like it hurt, and he could tell that Belanger had gotten off on it, but Clint couldn’t see the appeal. The girl didn’t look like she’d had much fun, that was for sure.

Phil was calm beside him, though, and Clint looked over to see him carefully stretching and warming the deerskin whip. 

Clint felt a shiver run through him. He couldn’t untangle whether it was more fear or anticipation. He could feel all the eyes in the room turn to look at him. He bore it until the whip was warm and Phil turned to meet his gaze.

He seemed to be waiting for something, some signal maybe. Clint swallowed and looked at him. Phil looked good – his collar was still open, and his shoulders were relaxed. Standing beside him, Clint felt some of his tension ease. So that was a whipping, and now Phil was going to whip him, and… okay. 

It was going to be okay. 

Phil knew what he was doing. Clint might be nervous or unsure, but he had Phil in his corner. _Phil_. The man Clint had been secretly in love with for years, the only man that he truly trusted. Phil might send him into dangerous situations – but he always had Clint’s back, and Clint always went willingly.

He always went willingly _because_ Phil had his back.

It had hurt – it’d hurt more than he’d been willing to admit – to work without Phil by his side for the past month. He had felt so alone, tracking gun runners and busting chops for the FBI. Clint had thought he’d deserved it for what he’d done under Loki’s control, for the people he’d killed and for what had happened to Phil.

But whether he’d deserved it or not, Clint wasn’t alone now. Phil was here. 

Clint held his gaze and nodded.

Phil smiled, a quiet twitch of the lips that nonetheless lit up his whole face, and stepped forward. He put his hand on the small of Clint’s back – fingertips warm against the bare skin – and led him gently towards the pommel horse. 

Clint walked with him and stopped in front of the horse. He was going to lie across it like the girl had done, but Phil stopped him with a gentle press. 

“As much as I hate for Belanger to see you on your knees,” Phil said into his ear, his voice warm, “he won’t be enjoying the image for much longer.”

The words – and the desire behind them – brought a grin to Clint’s face despite his lingering nerves. He went down on his knees before the horse and lifted his hands at Phil’s gentle prodding. He clasped them together and rested them on the side of the saddle, feeling his shoulders tense. It wasn’t comfortable to have his back to both the door _and_ their mark, and Clint itched between his shoulder blades. Phil paused beside him and ran an appreciative hand from the nape of his neck down his back.

Clint shivered. Suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about the door anymore.

Phil took a breath in, held it, and then slowly let it out. His fingers continued to trail up and down Clint’s back, lightly brushing his skin. Time seemed to still for a moment.

“You are so beautiful,” Phil said in a raw voice Clint had never heard before. “I’m sure every lover you’ve ever had has told you that, but you are.”

“No,” Clint breathed, arching his back up into the touch. “Not really.” He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him “beautiful” actually, not that he was going to tell Phil that. Phil might figure out Clint wasn’t anything special if he did.

Phil made a low sound deep in his throat, and Clint wondered if the man really was telepathic. 

“You _are_ ,” Phil growled, as if him saying it made it true. Maybe it did. “I’m going to tell you every day until you believe me, and then I’ll tell you something else that’s true. I bet you never knew that the color of your eyes has haunted me at night, or that I have lost more time than I can say to the shape of your fingers and the way you shuffle cards.” His hands never stopped, and Clint felt a low heat deep in his belly. He felt simultaneously turned on and comforted, like he was being wrapped inside a protective blanket and stroked beneath the covers. 

“I’ll be good to you,” Phil was saying, his voice an anchor point in Clint’s rapidly shifting world. “You’ll come to me, and I’ll give you everything you need. Sometimes that will be a soft hand, and sometimes – ” He brought the handle of the whip up and brushed it along Clint’s spine beside the hand that was still caressing Clint’s skin. “ – that will be a stern whipping.”

Clint felt himself spinning at the double sensation – the soft warmth of Phil’s hand and the hard, blunt edge of the whip. He had a sudden image of the future, a fantasy he'd never known he wanted. 

Clint could see himself coming back from a mission, high on adrenalin and bouncing off the walls. Phil would let him get the energy out, take him down to the range and let him burn through a quiver of arrows to make all the shots he’d had to hold during the op. Phil had done that often enough, but this time when he was done, Phil would put Clint on his knees and leave him there. And if the energy was still too much, if Clint couldn’t settle, Phil would brush a hand through his hair and tell him to sit still. Maybe he would make Clint lean against a wall, like he was now. And then the whip would come. It wouldn’t be hard and without feeling like Belanger – it would be a kiss, a benediction, and a promise. It would take away whatever Clint had or hadn’t done, and after, there would be Phil, only Phil, and he would bring Clint back to himself.

Clint realized he was breathing hard, his cock full and heavy in his boxer-briefs. His head lolled forward, his every sense tuned to Phil at his back. He was glad his face was against the horse and away from the room now – he didn’t want anyone else to see him like this.

“Okay,” Clint breathed, shuddering through his desires. “Okay.” 

Phil bent forward and kissed the back of his neck. His skin prickled at the touch, like waves rippling on a still lake, and Phil brushed a hand once more along his spine before he moved up and away.

“Stay,” he said, whispering in Clint’s ear before he left, and Clint shuddered again at the command and amusement there. 

There were sounds behind him, people shifting in their places and quiet words being spoken, but all of it was background noise to Clint. He was rooted in place, his body bent where Phil had put him, his every sense straining towards his handler.

Phil didn’t brag like Belanger did, he simply called out in his calm and level voice, “Four down, four across.”

Clint felt a momentary stamp of pride that Phil was going to put Belanger in his place, and then the whip fell.

It came without warning, no crack to announce its presence, and Clint had a half-second to wonder if that was because the whip was deerskin or if Phil had intended to keep it silent before the pain blossomed along his back. 

It felt like white fire, burning bright. The shock of it traveled up his spine to the roots of his hair – shuddering and shivering in its simplicity. Clint had been hurt a lot in his life – being shot was definitely in his top ten, and having a broken femur was the very definition of lingering, horrible pain. This was a different kind of hurt, though – a long, thin line of pain, bright and shining. It didn’t ache the way a broken bone did, or throb the way a torn muscle could. This was surface pain, skin only, and there was something healing in it.

The whip flew again and Clint caught his breath as it stung him. Once again there was a delay – the feel of the whip striking skin, and then a half-second until – _oh_. The pain raced up and down his back, parallel to the first strike, and Clint wondered what he looked like, bent over like this. Was it red on his back? Was he bleeding? He couldn’t tell; the sensation was too strong.

The next two hits came in quick succession – _thwap thwap!_ – and burned their own lines down his back. Phil paused then, the whip silent, and Clint had a moment to breathe. He took full advantage of it, dragging air in and out through his nose and mouth, trying to find a calm space in his head where the fire didn’t touch. It was too seductive, too sweet. 

Clint trusted Phil, but he couldn’t let go – he needed to stay aware, stay awake, stay _here_ with him. Belanger was in the room and Clint needed to – 

The whip came down again – _thwap_ – and wrapped around his ribs. Phil must have shifted position, going horizontal now, and oh, god – it felt so _good_. Clint tried to hold it together, tried to keep himself focused but – _thwap!_ – the whip stung and he couldn’t contain himself anymore.

Phil had this. Phil had _him_. 

Clint let his shoulders sag and his head drop further forward. A moan escaped his lips and echoed through the room. There was a pause from behind him and Clint tried to reason through why, but it was getting hard to hold thoughts together in his mind. Then the whip came again and a third line stung, the fire burning through the last of his control and separating the final link between his mind and his body. It should have been terrifying, but Clint knew with a hazy sort of security that Phil was with him, that Phil had him. Safe in that knowledge, Clint gave in to the trust being offered and let himself go.

The whip came down a final time, and Clint floated in a haze of sensation, a safe place that was free and protected. He almost missed that fourth strike, the pain only registering dimly on his body as he hung in an empty sky. It was like every wild jump, every crazy car chase, every insane thing he had ever done, all wrapped into one. The high sharp pleasure of it, lifting him up – only this time he didn’t have to think about how he would land, if he could keep the car on the road, or how he could finish the op without getting someone killed. This time he could simply go with it, surrender to that sharp pleasure, because Phil was there to catch him.

Phil would always catch him.

Clint was dimly aware of footsteps behind him, a striding pace he knew and loved. Then Phil was there, his hand a burning brand of warm heat along the cool fire of the whip’s lash. There were words in his ear – gentle, warm, loving words about how good he was and how proud Phil was of him. Clint sagged in his place, head falling forward, and Phil was there to put a hand on his forehead and stop him before he hit the ground. 

Phil pulled him up and into his arms, and Clint went willingly. He was vaguely aware of being dragged into a corner, but it didn’t matter. Phil was warm and all around him – his breath, his arms, his scent enveloping him. Clint floated in an empty sky for what felt like hours, Phil rubbing his neck and his arms, his voice warm and low in his ear. 

Slowly, gently, Clint drifted down from that open place, his senses drawing him back to his body, Phil’s touch and voice and smell reeling him back into himself. Phil rubbed his shoulders and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, repeating that Clint was good and beautiful and other things Clint knew weren't true but that he loved hearing anyway.

Eventually, he blinked heavy eyes and refocused on Phil. They were both sitting on the floor in a corner and Phil’s hands were on him, anchoring him and holding him together all at once. When he saw Clint was coming down, he placed a warm, careful hand on Clint’s jaw and tipped his head up into a soft, sweet kiss – lingering but chaste. Clint shuddered – he had never been kissed so tenderly in his life. 

Phil held him gently, as if he were a precious thing. Clint loved it.

After a moment, Phil broke off, pressing soft, short kisses to Clint’s bottom lip as he moved away. Clint shuddered again and shifted, tipping his head down and into the warm embrace of Phil’s chest. Phil held him and rubbed circles into his neck, and Clint blinked again a few more times until he felt himself completely grounded. 

“What – ” He licked his lips and tried again. “What the hell was that?”

Phil turned and pressed his lips against Clint’s temple. “That, I think, was sub space,” he said, gentle and proud. “It can happen sometimes, when a person lets go in a place of trust. It’s an endorphin rush triggered by adrenalin, and described by many as peaceful. Was it okay there?”

Clint shivered, burrowing himself deeper into Phil. “It was _awesome_ ,” he confessed. “It was scary at first because I didn’t want to let go, but I knew you had me. It was – ” He shook his head, unable to find the words. “It was awesome.”

He could feel Phil smile into the side of his hair. “I’m glad.”

Clint shifted and looked up at him. “Do … do doms have a similar thing?” Clint asked, hesitant. He wanted to know if Phil could ever go to that happy drifting place. “Is there anything I could – ?”

Phil smiled and brushed a hand along Clint’s face, his thumb stroking his cheek. Clint turned his head into Phil’s warm hand. “Kind of,” Phil told him. “For a dom, it’s – ”

Someone cleared their throat loudly from across the room. Phil and Clint both looked up, faces darkening as they saw Belanger watching them and rolling his eyes.

“Are you finished?” he asked, “Or is class still in session? I believe we had a wager, Phil.”

Clint tensed, but Phil placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Clint took a deep breath in and stilled. Phil waited a moment more before levering them both to their feet. Behind them, Lana scowled. She was sitting beside Belanger’s girl.

“House rules,” she spat in a venomous voice, “specifically indicate that moments between partners be treated with the utmost respect – ”

Belanger cut her off, which Clint knew was not a good idea. “That is in normal play,” he said. “This is a competition, and some of us have places to be.” He stared pointedly at Phil. “Birdie in Hand? You won’t win that one so easily.”

Phil leveled Belanger with the flat stare that sent junior agents scurrying from his office. “Well, if you have somewhere to _be_ ,” he said, and lowered his hand from Clint’s shoulder to his hip. With subtle pressure, Phil guided Clint across the room to the other wall so they could stand behind Belanger again. The drug dealer waited with Phil’s chosen whip, and handed it back to him with a sneer. Phil reached forward to take it, and Clint caught the flash of the beige tracker in his left hand.

Clint bit his lip to keep from smiling – he knew this move. Sure enough, Phil took the whip in his right hand while his left came up and caught Belanger’s hand. Phil stepped forward into Belanger’s space, saying something low and distracting his ear, while he planted the tracker high on the man’s wrist. 

Belanger’s face paled, and Clint would have paid good money to hear what Phil had said. Belanger huffed and stepped back, taking his own whip in hand, but his knuckles were tight on the leather. Clint cocked his head at his handler as Phil moved back to his side.

“What did you say to him?” Clint asked, leaning over to speak into Phil’s ear.

“A simple declaration of intent,” Phil said, and then, in a quieter voice, “The tracker is on – we have to keep him here for another hour or so, and then he won’t have time to shower or change before his important deal in the morning.”

Clint stared at Phil, puzzled. “How do you know that?”

Phil cocked an eyebrow, and Clint thought back to Shirley at the bar when she brought them their drinks. So there _had_ been a piece of paper exchanged between them. 

“You sly bastard,” Clint said, a slow grin spreading over his face. “Shirley recognized you, didn’t she?”

Phil hummed. “We might have run into each other previously, yes. Donaldson is an idiot, but there are agents worth watching in the DEA.”

Clint shook his head, still smiling. “You know, this was supposed to be _my_ op. Instead, you waltz in and wrap everything up.”

Phil’s eyebrow twitched. “You would have completed the op,” he countered, “but the DEA doesn’t care that you would have been hurt in the process. I do.”

Clint felt a warm buzz in his chest. “Yeah,” he said, grinning, “you do.”

Phil’s hand squeezed his for a moment and then fell away. He turned and Clint looked in the direction of his gaze. 

Belanger was stalking back to them, and Clint could see that the drug dealer had been rummaging through the cabinet while they were speaking. He came back with five rubber balls, each one a different bright color and about the size of a billiard ball.

“Ready?” he growled at Phil, who nodded.

Belanger looked towards his girl, who was still standing with Lana. She looked pale but recovered, and Lana bent down and spoke gently into her ear. The girl smiled at the older woman but glanced back to Belanger. She was frightened, Clint could tell, but she shook her head at Lana and walked a little unsteadily back toward Belanger. Clint wondered if the drug dealer had something on her that would make her continue to obey him when she would clearly rather not.

Belanger strode across the room and indicated the girl should follow. He put her on one knee in front of the pommel horse, facing her towards the curtain so she was in profile to the audience. He stretched her right hand in front of her, palm up, and twisted the other arm behind her, also palm up. It looked uncomfortable, but the girl was balanced enough that she didn’t fall over. Belanger turned and picked up the balls.

Moving slowly, the drug dealer placed one ball on each of the girl’s palms. He put the bright green one on her upturned hand and the blue one on the palm held behind her. The red ball he balanced carefully on her bent knee, and the purple one he tucked between her hamstring and her flexed thigh. The orange one he saved for last, and arranged carefully on the top of her head.

“This is _unacceptable_ ,” Lana growled from the corner. She stalked forward. “House rules _specifically_ disallow methods of play that may intentionally or unintentionally cause permanent injury or scarring. You want to play that hard, you do it outside my House.”

Rolling his eyes, Belanger removed the ball from the girl’s head. The girl bit her lip, but said nothing. 

Belanger kept the final orange ball in his left hand as he moved away from the pommel horse. He grinned wickedly at his living statue. “Don’t move,” he told her.

Clint sucked a quick breath in, realizing what was about to happen. Belanger loosened his whip and cracked it once. The girl flinched, and the four balls arranged on her body shuddered but didn’t fall.

Belanger readied himself, and the girl closed her eyes.

_Crack, crack, crack!_ The whip flew three times in quick succession. Each flick hit a ball with expert precision – the first knocked the red ball off the girl’s bent knee, and the second hit the green one on her upturned hand. The third strike went for the blue ball held behind her and knocked it off its perch, but Clint saw the girl wince as the tongue of the whip struck her fingers as it flew.

Belanger either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He paused for a moment to catch his breath and then arced the whip again. The fourth strike sailed towards the purple ball balanced on her hamstring, but this time his aim was off. The whip struck the ball from the back of her knee but wrapped itself around her leg as it flew. The girl cried out as the whip fell and a line of fiery red emblazoned itself around her thigh.

Belanger scowled, and Clint knew this meant he’d lost points. He started to grin, but stopped when he noticed that Phil had tensed at his side. He turned toward him, but just then, Belanger grunted and threw the orange ball. Quickly, before Lana could move to intervene, he let the whip in his right hand fly.

The orange ball sailed towards the girl’s head and landed neatly in her up-done hair. It sat there for a half a second until the tongue of the whip knocked it clean off the girl’s head and onto the floor. The room sucked in its breath and waited. Belanger gave a high, sharp laugh, before looking over at Lana in the corner.

It had been an incredible display of marksmanship and skill, but Lana wasn’t impressed.

She stalked towards Belanger, stopped a foot away from his face, and growled. “Get. Out.” 

Belanger gave her a cool look. “I will,” he said, then glanced toward Phil. “But we have a wager to complete. Judge fairly, and then I shall leave.”

She stared at him hard. “You set foot in this establishment again, and I will call the police.”

Belanger gave her a mocking bow and turned to Phil. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?” 

Phil gave him a bland look. He glanced at the balls scattered around the floor, looked back at Belanger, and arched an eyebrow of his own. 

It was remarkably like a kindergarten teacher telling a little boy to pick up his toys.

Clint had to close his eyes and take several short, shuddering breaths to keep himself from coming on the very spot. He might, potentially, have had a bit of a daddy kink, and Phil could pull off “irritated father-figure” like no one else in this world.

Belanger scowled and turned back towards the pommel horse, striding angrily forward to yank the girl up from where she had been getting unsteadily to her feet. Pulling her into the corner, he thrust a glass of juice into her hand and left her there, turning back to pick up the fallen balls. The girl rubbed the back of her thigh and winced. She looked towards Lana, but the older woman had a distinct frown of “I told you so” on her face. Clint knew that expression well.

The girl’s face crumpled, and Lana sighed. She walked over to the girl and petted her hair gently. Clint looked away.

Belanger strode back to Phil with his palms full. “Here,” he snarled, thrusting the brightly colored balls into Phil’s waiting hands. “See if you can do better.”

Phil inclined his head in a polite nod and turned toward Clint. Clint grinned wickedly, knowing Belanger would see, and turned toward the pommel horse. He put a bit of a swagger in his walk, having full confidence in Phil’s skills. He wanted this fucker to lose, and lose _hard_. 

Phil placed the balls on the ground by the horse like Belanger had done and turned toward Clint. Gently, Phil tugged on his arms until they were held straight out in front of him at chest height, and arranged his palms face up. Phil placed the red ball on Clint’s right hand and the green on his left, and Clint understood how this was more difficult than what Belanger had done. Belanger’s girl had been in profile to the audience, her hands held in front and behind her so the whip only had to knock the balls from her hand. Clint was standing _facing_ the audience, so if Phil misjudged, the whip would fly past the balls and hit Clint in the chest. Even if he hit the balls dead-on, Clint was willing to bet Phil would lose points if the balls touched any other part of his body. Phil would have to hit them with exactly the right amount of speed to knock the balls from Clint’s hands to the floor without flying into his chest.

The balls were well away from his face – even if Phil missed completely, he would only hit Clint’s at the level of his collar bone. Clint could see that Lana didn’t like it, but she made no move to stop the game. 

Turning away from him, Phil reached for the blue and purple balls. Clint thought they would go on his feet, but Phil surprised him, tucking the purple ball into the crook of his right elbow and the blue into his left. 

_Fuck_ – not only would Phil have to hit the first balls with enough speed and precision to make sure they fell without hitting Clint in the chest, he’d also have to make sure they didn’t fly backwards and knock the second set of balls off Clint’s upturned elbows. The position was precarious – even as he stood there, the balls jiggled slightly. Clint took a careful breath in and let it out. He willed his body to stay motionless. 

It should have been a walk in the park – holding still in absurd positions was practically his day job, after all – but this time Clint wasn’t watching Phil through a scope. Instead, Phil was right there in front of him, shirt collar still open, staring at him with a critical eye as he evaluated his handiwork. 

Phil was beautiful like this – confident, sure, and sexy as hell. Clint wanted him, and it was harder than it should have been not to drop the balls and lick him from head to toe.

Clint watched Phil walk back to the other side of the room, and reminded himself that Phil had put him in this position. Phil wanted him like this – standing still and ready for Phil’s touch. Clint wanted to show Belanger how it felt to lose. He took another deep breath and focused on Phil’s face as his handler lifted the whip and let the first strike fly.

_Snap!_ The red ball shivered as Phil struck it dead on. It bounced off Clint’s palm and fell to the floor, neatly avoiding the purple ball behind it.

Clint had to bite his cheek to keep himself from moaning out loud. Fuck, this was hotter than Phil on the firing range, and Phil was _hot_ on the firing range.

Clint might have had a thing for marksmanship. Just possibly. 

Phil met his eyes and his eyebrow lifted as if to say, “Really, Barton?” Clint ducked his head and looked up at his handler from beneath his lashes because – yeah, really.

Phil’s upper lip twitched and the whip flew again. This time the green ball balanced on his left palm hit the floor with a satisfying _plunk_. Clint barely had time to restrain his reaction before – _snap snap_ – the purple and blue balls were tapped from their precarious position on his forearms and fell to the floor.

Neither the balls nor the whip came even close to hitting Clint’s chest before they fell. Clint had to swallow his reflexive urge drop to his knees and beg Phil to let Clint suck him off.

Phil still had the orange ball. Clint caught his breath and waited, and sure enough Phil caught his eye. He paused for a moment, then lobed the orange ball into the air. The throw was short, but he and Clint had worked for years together in the field. Clint lifted his hand, ready to catch. Belanger snorted, clearly thinking Phil had missed, but then the whip came up. Phil snapped his wrist and the tongue lashed out, the whip striking the ball as it began its downward curve. The whip licked the ball, and the force of it sent the orange ball zipping straight into Clint’s waiting hand. 

Belanger stared, shocked, as the rest of the room erupted into cheers. 

Phil took a short bow and indicated Clint should do the same. He did, smirking as Belanger realized he had lost. The drug dealer scowled and crossed his arms in the corner, and Clint had to resist the urge to brag. 

Lana moved forward from the corner where she had been sitting with Belanger’s girl. “Phil, congratulations on your victory,” she said, giving Phil a smile. She turned to Belanger, and her voice became cool. “You have lost, Mr. Belanger. Please leave now.”

Belanger glared at Lana with real hate in his eyes, but the look he turned on Phil was glacially calm. 

“Of course,” he said smoothly, and Clint narrowed his eyes. “But I believe I owe Phil a drink first?” He indicated the red curtain, and beyond that, the bar. 

Clint frowned at Phil, but his handler kept his eyes on Belanger. After a moment he nodded his head. “One drink.” 

Clint could see that no one liked it. Candice in the corner was frowning, and even Derrick looked perturbed. 

But Belanger just smiled with all his teeth and ignored everyone but Phil. Clint glanced at his handler, who met his eyes. Phil looked down at his watch and back to Clint. Clint grimaced but understood – they still had to distract Belanger for another half an hour or there was an increased chance the man would spot the tracker. 

Taking his time, Clint walked back over to his clothes and pulled them on. He faced the wall as he did so, not willing to give Belanger a show. The tight shirt rubbed at his swollen skin and made him shiver, but Clint swallowed and ignored it. Later, when the mission was complete and this bastard Belanger was in FBI custody, Clint promised himself he would touch what skin he could reach with a wondering hand, and marvel at how much it stung.

Pulling on his pants was worse than the first time because he was still half-hard, but Clint managed. When he had finished, he stalked back to Phil, who nodded at him and then looked towards the drug dealer.

Belanger inclined his head towards the curtain and led the way out of the room. Not happy with the situation but willing to follow Phil’s lead, Clint ducked through the curtain after Belanger. He half-expected the drug dealer to be waiting for him with a knife to the kidney or the bodyguard they had left in the lounge, but Belanger was ahead of him in the corridor and walking steadily toward the main room. Clint waited for Phil and they both paced after him, leaving Belanger’s girl with Lana in the playroom. 

Crossing to the second curtain, Clint stepped into the dungeon proper. It was still busy, but markedly emptier than before. The dance floor buzzed with bodies and the music flowed, but there were fewer couples on the leather couches and more places open at the bar. 

Shirley was still there, mixing drinks, and Clint caught her eye from across the room. She looked relieved to see him, and even more so to see Phil step from beyond the curtain to stand at his side. 

Belanger was stalking towards the bar, and Clint hurried to catch up with him, Phil matching him stride for stride. The drug dealer signaled for Shirley, and she came over just as Clint and Phil reached the bar. Clint looked, but couldn’t see Belanger’s bodyguard.

“A rum and coke for myself, and something appropriate for the victor, here.” Belanger said, turning to smile with fake cheer at Phil. Clint let his handler walk to the bar to stand beside Belanger, placing himself at Phil’s right shoulder. 

“What will it be, Phil? Champagne?” 

Phil met Belanger’s challenging eyes and held them. “I’d prefer a rye and ginger, actually.”

Shirley nodded and went to fix both drinks. Belanger waited until she returned, and then handed her a twenty and waved away the change. He held up his drink for a toast, and waited until Phil did the same. When he had, Belanger leaned forward to clink their glasses together. He bent over and whispered in Phil’s ear while he did, saying something so low that even Clint, standing on Phil’s other side, couldn’t hear the words over the beat from the dance floor.

Whatever it was, Phil took it calmly. Clint bet only he could see the way Phil’s shoulders went tight, a sure sign that he was holding back some strong emotion he didn’t want Belanger to see. 

Belanger leaned away again, smirking. “Cheers,” he said, and downed his drink.

Phil leveled him with a glare, but he raised his glass in turn. “Cheers,” he said, and put the glass to his lips.

Before he could take a sip, there was a shout from the bar. Phil lowered his glass and blinked at Shirley, who was flailing in place, her arms cartwheeling as she fought to keep her balance. One hand flashed out and knocked the glass from Phil’s hand just as she caught her balance. 

The glass crashed to the floor and shattered. Shirley gripped the bar and swore, and her fellow bartender rushed over to help. 

“What happened?” he demanded. “Are you okay?”

Shirley nodded and waved her hand at the floor. “Slipped on the goddamn dishrag,” she scowled. She tried to take a step forward and winced. “Ow, my knee. Ow ow ow. I think I twisted it.”

“I would imagine so,” Phil said dryly. He hadn’t moved from his place at the bar. “That was quite a spill.”

Shirley turned back to him and bit her lip. “I am so – _so_ – sorry,” she stammered. “I’ll make you another drink right away.”

“Don’t bother,” Belanger scowled. “The wager was for one drink, and if he wants another, he can pay for it himself.” He turned to Phil. “Thank you for ruining what might have been a lovely evening.” He set his empty glass back on the bar and turned away.

“Mr. Belanger,” Phil said, catching the man’s attention. He paused on his way to the door, his back towards them, and his shoulders stiff. “I hope you understood what Lana said,” Phil continued. “If you ever return to this establishment again, the police will be called.”

Belanger didn’t bother to look back at Phil behind him, but he nodded once. Clint could see the bob of his head and the clench of his hands into fists at his sides. Phil turned back to the bar, and Belanger stalked away. His bodyguard detached himself from the crowd and followed, and Clint kept an eye on them both as they strode toward the main entrance and let themselves out.

He turned back to Phil. Shirley was just coming back with his replacement drink. 

“I believe the other team can stall him for a few minutes more, don’t you think?” Phil mentioned casually, and Shirley smirked. 

“I’m sure they can.” She raised her hand to her ear as if to fiddle with the ring there, but Clint watched as she thumbed on her mic. “Target leaving,” she said quietly enough that Clint had to strain to hear. “Trace active. Can we delay another twenty minutes?”

She nodded at the answer then looked toward Phil. “We’re on it.”

Phil nodded, took a sip of his drink and placed it back on the counter. He sighed and looked towards Shirley. “He laced it?”

Shirley nodded, a rueful smile on her face. “I couldn’t see with what, but he dropped it in your drink when you clinked glasses.”

Clint stared at her. “He _what_?”

Phil shrugged with one shoulder. “He pulled the same trick on me as I did on him, only I had backup and he didn’t. The tracker is functioning?”

Shirley gave him a smile. “Loud and clear. You delayed him long enough, he should be leaving for the meet soon. Our team will be waiting for him.” She looked over at Clint, who was still fuming because Belanger had tried to slip Phil a mickey, and he hadn’t even noticed. 

“But no matter what happens, I don't think he’ll ever come back here again. What exactly went on back there?”

Phil just took another sip of his drink and raised an eyebrow at her. Clint smirked. Shirley rolled her eyes and limped away to where another customer waited. “I’m telling Davidson this is the last time we recruit from S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Damn straight,” Phil said quietly enough that she wouldn’t hear, and Clint couldn’t help himself. He laughed.


	5. Chapter 5

They hung around the bar for another half-hour. Lana came over and reprimanded Phil for issuing a challenge like that under her nose. She hissed like an angry cat, but accepted Phil’s apologies. She even thanked him for scaring Belanger away for good, and promised to take care of Belanger’s girl. 

“Did you mean it?” Clint asked her as she turned away. “Would you really call the cops if he showed up again?”

“Absolutely,” she told him, steel in her voice. “That man will not be abusing subs on my property ever again.” 

“I wouldn’t worry, Lana,” Phil assured her. “I have it on good authority that Nicholas Belanger will get what is coming to him, and sooner than he thinks.”

Lana held his gaze for a moment and then nodded sharply. She turned away and strode back across the bar.

Clint rolled his shoulders when she left and wiggled off the ring with the panic-button concealed inside. He placed it on the bar and dropped his ear-mic beside it. Shirley swept them both into her dishcloth as she wiped down the bar.

“Well, it feels good to get this op over with,” Clint said, signaling Shirley’s coworker for another drink. 

Beside him, Phil rolled his own shoulders and loosened another button on his shirt. “Not exactly how I pictured my evening,” he admitted.

Clint cocked an eyebrow at him. “Yeah? You were planning on a little more action, maybe?”

Phil’s upper lip twitched. “Less, actually.” He fixed Clint with a look that could have been bland, if not for the heat in his eyes. “I was planning on moping in the corner, thinking of you, and counting down the days until Fury had to release me from medical leave.”

Clint couldn’t have stopped the smile on his face if the Director himself had ordered him to. “Really?” He asked, “And how many days of medical leave do you have left?”

Phil held himself still, but his eyes devoured Clint hungrily. “Seven.”

“Mmm, seven whole days,” Clint murmured, sliding forward into Phil’s space. “I feel like the FBI and the DEA both owe me some vacation time for sending me into an op unprepared. Think I could crash at your place for a while?”

Phil’s hand slid confidently around his waist. “Oh, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

They stared at each other for a moment before simultaneously reaching out and draining their drinks. Shirley grinned into her hand as they moved away from the bar, and Clint flashed her a smile. 

“You’re going to have to give Davidson a sitrep eventually,” Phil warned him as they walked through the double doors, past the anteroom, and out into the parking lot. Clint flipped off an agent he recognized loitering with a cigarette in the cool air. The man rolled his eyes but let him go – he’d probably been warned by Shirley that Clint was walking off the op.

“Tomorrow,” Clint shrugged as he steered them toward a cab idling at the curb. “He’ll be busy with Belanger tonight.”

Phil nudged Clint away from the street and toward a row of parked cars. “I’ve had one drink,” he explained. “I can drive.” Clint opened his mouth to protest, but Phil shook his head. “I am not sitting beside you in a cab right now.” 

“Why not?”

“Because I won’t be able to keep my hands off you,” Phil growled, digging his keys out of his pocket. “And I have much better ways to get you off than in the back of a cab.”

Clint felt anticipation flutter in his belly, along with something that could have been nerves. “Well, if you have _plans_ ,” he murmured, following Phil.

Phil paused beside his car and caught Clint’s eyes. “Oh,” he promised, “I have plans.”

Clint grinned wickedly and got in the car. Phil slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine. They rolled smoothly out of the parking lot, and Phil very properly kept his hands at the ten-and-two positions. Clint wanted to tease him, but he had no desire to end the night wrapped around a telephone pole. Phil had legendary self-control, but it made no sense to distract the man while he was driving. Clint tried to fist his hands into his pants to keep himself from touching, but he couldn’t get purchase on the slick leather. 

He laughed. “I can’t believe they gave me _leather pants_.”

Phil glanced over at him from the driver’s seat. “I like them,” he said. “They show off your ass.”

Clint felt himself flush and ducked his head to hide it. “Why, Phil Coulson,” he asked, “were you checking out my ass?”

“I check out your ass on a daily basis,” Phil told him, looking back at the road. “I was just adding to my mental gallery.”

Clint stared at him. “You – what?” He shook his head. “No way, I would have noticed.”

Phil gave him a look he usually reserved for particularly slow junior agents. “Clint, what part of ‘I’ve wanted you for a long time – since I brought you in, even’ did you not understand?”

Clint felt a blush creep up his neck. “Um – all of it, I guess?”

A muscle twitched in Phil’s jaw, and Clint looked at him, startled. Phil was _angry_. Clint felt like an idiot. “I’m sorry, I –”

“No,” Phil stopped him. He let out a long breath and looked over at Clint. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Clint held his breath. 

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Phil went on. “Years. I’ve worried about you on ops, watched you on the practice range, and left work thinking of you. I’ve dreamed of you – of what I could do to you in the bedroom, yes – but also about watching movies after work, ordering pizza, and sharing a part of your life I hadn’t dared touch before. I should have told you that a long time ago.” He took a deep breath and looked back at the road. “But I know you’ve had bad experiences with people in a position of authority. I never wanted you to think that your position within S.H.I.E.L.D. would be dependent on our relationship. I never wanted to be someone you couldn’t trust.”

Clint stared at him, feeling the sudden, horrible urge to cry. They were happy tears, which made no sense. He blinked them away. “I’ve trusted you for a long time now.”

Phil nodded, his eyes still on the road. “I know, and I didn’t want to do anything to risk that trust.” He wet his lips. “I also knew that if we started something casual, I would want more.” He flicked an apologetic glance at Clint. “You should know that, if we do this, it won’t be casual for me.” 

Clint had to clear his throat. “It won’t... it hasn’t been casual to me for a long time, boss.” He thought back to what Phil had said before, at the club. “And you know that – I mean, I hope you know that – I’m interested in… in this.” He waved a hand over himself, leather pants and all. “I mean, I liked that – what we did. Even though it was for an op and that asshole was there. I liked it. I’d like… I’d like to do it again.”

Phil’s tongue darted out to touch his bottom lip, and his knuckles tightened on the wheel. “Are you sure about that? Because I have spent many – _many_ – hours plotting how I could convince you to let me do even half of those things to you.”

“You wasted your time, then.” Clint shook his head. “You could’ve crooked your littlest finger and I would’ve come running. Nat’s teased me about it enough times, over the years.”

Phil smiled. “Well, if we’re going to rely on _Natasha_ for relationship advice…”

“Hey, don’t pick on the desperate man, sir.”

Phil’s eyes darkened at the honorific, and Clint smiled slyly. “Oh, you like that, I see.”

Phil cleared his throat. “It has a different connotation within the BDSM community.”

Clint grinned. “Now that one, I bet I can guess.” He glanced out the window at the streets speeding past. “Are we there yet or what?” 

“Impatient, Specialist?”

“For you, sir? Always.”

Phil’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and turned to concentrate on the road. A minute later, they finally turned off the main street and into an underground parking garage. Phil pulled them into a numbered spot and turned off the car. He unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped lightly out of the car in one smooth motion. “Coming, Barton?” he called.

Clint fumbled with his seatbelt. “Sir, yes, sir!”

Phil caught him when he stumbled from the car, having already crossed around from the driver’s side. His eyes were dark as his hands tightened around Clint’s waist. “Careful,” he warned in a low voice that told Clint how incredibly turned on he was. “I have ways of making you suffer for tormenting me, you know.”

Clint shivered. “I look forward to them,” he promised.

Phil’s hands on his waist squeezed, and he pulled Clint forward against his chest. He crushed their lips together. Clint groaned and Phil took the opportunity to thrust his tongue into Clint’s mouth. 

Clint whimpered as Phil _plundered_ him, licking at him from the inside out. His knees felt weak. 

“Fuck,” he breathed as they broke apart for air. Phil looked about as wrecked as he felt, his undone shirt collar and reddened lips making him look more disheveled than Clint had ever seen him.

Phil held his eyes for a second and then nodded his head sharply. “Right,” he said, and turned toward the door at the end of the parking garage. He pulled Clint along behind him, his hand shifting from Clint’s waist to his wrist. There was strength and steel in his grip, and Clint wondered if he would have bruises after this. The thought made him shiver as he stumbled along after Phil.

“Priorities,” Phil muttered to himself as he marched them to the door. “You. Naked. My bed. _Now_.”

Clint’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and his entire body was tingling. “Okay,” he managed to get out. Phil growled. 

In the elevator, Phil took Clint’s face in his hands and dragged him into a kiss, but, somehow, they managed to make it to Phil’s apartment with their clothes on. They stumbled to the apartment door, and Clint presented his thumb for a genetic scan. He blinked when the light flashed green without Phil entering a code, and Phil shrugged beside him. 

“You and Natasha have always had admission to my safe houses,” he explained, as if it were nothing. Clint was stuck between wanting to argue that was a stupid fucking idea, and kissing the man senseless.

Phil decided for him by opening the door and dragging him through by his t-shirt. He pushed him against the wall and kissed him again as the door closed behind them. “Pants off,” Phil panted into his mouth. “Bedroom.”

Clint groaned and shucked himself out of his clothes for the second time that night. Phil turned and led the way through the apartment. It wasn’t very big, and Clint quickly catalogued the entrances and exits as he followed Phil.

His handler was waiting for him in the bedroom. He had removed his socks and jacket but nothing else, while Clint was down to his boxer-briefs. 

“Did you just leave your clothes in a pile by my front door?” Phil asked him in what might pass for a normal voice if his eyes weren’t dark with desire.

Clint glanced back toward the door and – yep – the pile of clothes there. He smirked. “Looks like.”

“I think we’re going to have to discuss the rules of this relationship,” Phil told him as Clint swaggered into his personal space. 

“Oh really,” Clint murmured, ducking his head to come up under Phil’s jaw and kiss the side of his neck. “What rules are those?”

Phil shivered, but didn’t move. “Tidiness is a virtue, and virtues are rewarded. Vices are punished.”

Clint closed his eyes and mouthed at the skin under Phil’s left ear. It tasted fantastic. “So if I want to get punished, I should just refuse to make the bed?”

Phil tipped his head to better allow Clint access to his neck. His hands remained stubbornly at his sides, though. “No. If you want to get punished, you ask for it and we discuss a scene. Acting out is for children, and children get spanked.”

Clint tried to strangle his groan, but half the sound escaped. He mouthed hungrily at Phil’s neck. “Did I ever mention to you that I have a bit of a daddy kink?”

Phil moved in a flash. He grabbed Clint’s hands and twisted, throwing Clint down face first on the bed. Phil held Clint’s wrists tightly behind his back, pressing his long, hard cock in the crook of Clint’s ass. 

“Did I ever tell you that you are a perfect human being?” 

Clint groaned and rolled his hips, rubbing his ass against Phil’s stiff length. “I’m not very good with rules,” he panted. “Might need a firm hand.”

Phil held his wrists in a tight grip with one hand and twisted himself so the press of his dick fell away. Clint whined, but then Phil’s hand was there, stroking up and down the back of his upper thigh.

“You need a firm hand, a gentle hand, and everything in between,” Phil promised him, his tongue flicking out to tease the lobe of Clint’s ear. His fingertips trailed lightly up the back of Clint’s thigh to his ass. 

Clint groaned and tried to roll his hips again, but Phil stopped him with pressure on his wrists. “But you have been very good tonight,” Phil went on, “so I guess I can give you what you want right now.”

“Yeah,” Clint panted into the mattress, “and what do I want?”

In answer, Phil dragged the waistband of Clint’s underwear down and gave him a firm, ringing slap on the ass. 

“Ah!” Clint jerked, the stinging pain more than he had been expecting. It rolled through him, mixing with the sensation of Phil pressing him down. He groaned and pressed his aching dick into the mattress, wishing for something harder he could rub off against. 

“None of that,” Phil said in a hoarse voice, and spanked him again. Clint groaned. 

“Now, how many do you deserve?” Phil asked. “That’s two for the ‘sir’ comment, and I think another two for the pile of clothes on my floor.” He gave Clint a firm slap, this time on the other cheek. His skin prickled, and Clint knew it was turning red under Phil’s hand.

Phil hit him again, this time on the upper thigh. “And one more,” he breathed into Clint’s ear, rolling his hips forward so Clint could feel the hard ridge of his cock, “if you beg me to.”

“Fuck,” Clint breathed, dragging himself back from the brink. The feel of Phil against him was almost enough to send him into those white clouds again. “Yes, please, Phil. Spank me, sir – do it again.”

Phil’s breath was harsh in his ear, and Clint’s voice hitched as Phil slapped him a final time. The sensation was clean and sharp, like the whip but muted. Clint groaned and tried to bury himself in Phil’s scent. He pushed the back of his head into Phil’s face and shivered as Phil kissed the nape of his neck.

“You’re such a good boy, Clint,” Phil whispered into his ear. “You’re good, so _very good_. I’m going to be good to you, too. I’m going to give you everything you want.”

Clint shuddered. His ass was on fire and Phil’s hand stroked him as he talked, brushing his fingers up and down over the sensitized skin. He shifted and Clint heard Phil suck in a breath, then pain exploded along Clint’s back as Phil ran his hands slowly over the marks left by the whip. 

Clint groaned and ground his hips into the mattress. 

Phil let go of his wrists and moved, sliding to the floor to position himself behind where Clint was sprawled on the bed. He put both his hands on Clint’s ass, spreading him open. There was something hot and slick against Clint’s hole, and he realized it was Phil’s tongue.

“Fuck!” Clint groaned, hips rolling to push his ass closer into Phil’s face. “Oh yes, oh _fuck_.”

Phil kept going, his tongue hard and wet on Clint’s hole, and god, it felt so _good_. Clint tried to rub off against the mattress and sobbed when it wasn’t enough. 

“Phil, fuck – sir, please sir, oh fuck! Phil, _stop_.”

Phil released him instantly, his hands falling away from Clint’s skin. Clint had a momentary flash of panic, but then Phil was right there beside him, cradling his head in his hands and pulling Clint forward and into his chest.

“What?” he asked, startled. “Clint, what is it?”

Clint heard the concern in his voice and shivered. “I don’t – I’m going to come, if you keep doing that,” he explained. “I don’t want to come yet – I really want you to fuck me.”

Phil stilled, and Clint looked up into his face. He looked wrecked, lips red and hair mussed. His voice, when he spoke, was rough. “Are you sure? Don’t ask me if you aren’t sure.”

Clint wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t manage more than a huff of breath. He felt like he was going to fly apart. “Yes, of course I am.” His voice turned husky. “I want you to fuck me, I want to feel you. Come on, Phil, please,” he begged, knowing how much Phil liked it. “ _Please_ fuck me, sir.”

Phil’s eyes were dark with desire. His hands trembled, and Clint wondered if it was taking everything Phil had to hold himself still.

Finally he moved, carefully bending down to bite at the tender skin underneath Clint’s ear. “Do you know how very pretty you look when you beg?” he asked, going for a conversational tone and missing by about a mile.

Clint loved that he could break the legendary Coulson control. “No,” Clint breathed, arching into Phil’s touch. He bit down harder, and Clint groaned. “Feel free to tell me, though.”

He could feel Phil smile against his skin and then his hands were back, rubbing at Clint’s ass. “You are _incredibly_ pretty when you beg,” Phil told him. “But don’t go thinking puppy eyes will work with me every time.”

Clint’s breath hitched as Phil’s right hand wandered underneath the pillow at the top of the bed and came back with a bottle of lube. “N – never, sir.”

“Damn straight,” Phil said, then rolled him over once more. He put Clint on his stomach on the bed, and crouched down again behind him. He pulled Clint’s shorts the rest of the way off but didn’t bother to remove the rest of his own clothes. 

Phil’s hands went to Clint’s ass again and Clint groaned as he felt Phil’s tongue slide over his hole. “Fuuuuuck,” Clint exhaled, turning his head into the comforter and trying to bury himself in Phil’s scent. It wasn’t strong – Phil had probably only slept in this safe house one night – but it was enough. “Sir,” he whimpered.

Phil huffed a laugh, and then there was a slick finger pressing into Clint’s hole. He whined as it slipped in easily. Clint might not have done this with another person for a while, but he had spent too many nights with his fingers in his own ass, calling Phil’s name, for it to hurt.

Phil groaned behind him, and Clint wondered if he had just said that last bit out loud.

The second finger went in just as easily, and Phil carefully took the time to stretch him before adding a third. It was tight, but not full enough, and Clint wanted more. He wanted _Phil._

“I’m ready,” he panted. “Come on, Phil, _please_.” 

Phil’s breath was ragged as he leaned away. Clint looked over his shoulder to see that Phil’s hands were shaking as they undid his belt. 

Clint licked his lips as he watched, the sight of Phil’s hands on his belt stirring some very interesting images. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had a bit of a daddy kink, but he’d thought it was reflected mostly in his attraction to older men. The sudden mental image of Phil strapping him had Clint digging his hard cock into the mattress again, and Clint had to wonder if his own desires were more twisted than he’d thought.

Clint hadn’t had a happy childhood, but maybe that’s what made it so darkly satisfying – he _trusted_ Phil in a way he had never trusted his own father. He trusted Phil to discipline him. 

He also trusted Phil to fuck him.

“Come on, come on,” Clint muttered as Phil seemed to take his sweet time undoing the button on his pants. 

Phil met his eyes, his gaze dark. His dick was straining at his pants, the head peeking out from the slit in his boxers, but he still held on to the remnants of his legendary control.

“Careful,” Phil warned him, slowly reaching down to pull himself out of his boxers. “I might actually decide to use the belt on you.”

Clint licked his lips, and Phil tracked the movement. His hand tightened around the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. “Fuck, Clint.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, his voice hoarse. “That’s what I’ve been _saying_.”

Phil groaned. He was still wearing the button-up shirt, and his pants were hanging loosely off his hips. He looked like sex itself.

“So impatient,” he mumbled, rolling on the condom before slicking himself up with lube. 

Clint groaned and dropped his head back onto the covers. He felt Phil settle in behind him, and then the delicious pressure of his cock as it brushed against Clint’s hole. “Yessss,” he moaned as Phil carefully pushed himself in. “Yes, yes, _yes_. Wanted this for _so_ long, sir.”

Phil’s breath was ragged behind him. He moved slowly, taking his time. Clint gave a wordless cry, urging him to go deeper. He rolled his hips, and Phil swatted his ass. The tender skin burned.

“None of that,” Phil admonished in a breathless voice. “You’ll end this too quickly, and I want to take my time.”

“I – Phil – _fuck_ ,” Clint said, losing whatever words he had been about to say as Phil sank into him again.

In and out, in and out, the slow burn teasing and perfect all at once. Clint moaned wordless endearments, threats, and apologies into the pillow as Phil carefully set the pace.

By the time he was all the way in, even Phil had lost his self-control. They started rutting together on the bed, individual words lost in the harsh breaths between them. 

Phil finally tipped Clint forward and just started _giving_ it to him – long, hard thrusts that pushed Clint to the brink a half-dozen times. Then Phil got a hand around him, tugged on his cock once, and that was it.

Clint fell into his orgasm, the heat of it crawling up his spine and bursting inside his head. The world whited-out, and it would have been terrifying if it hadn’t been for Phil behind him. As it was, it was enough to put him in that high, cloudy place for a moment, all sensation deliciously close and yet somewhat muted as Phil gave two last, grunting thrusts and came inside him.

Clint blinked as Phil slumped forward on top of him, their breath mingling on the pillow. They lay like that for a moment, soaking in each other’s heat, until Phil groaned and pulled away. He rolled over on the bed to throw the used condom in the trash. 

Clint wasn’t normally one for cuddling, but he found himself whimpering as Phil moved away. Phil shushed him and came back, spooning him from behind, his hands gentle on Clint’s abused skin.

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Clint wanted to make some smartass comment about it being too early for pet names, but Phil smelled too good.

“Mmm,” he said instead, and relaxed into Phil’s chest.

Phil chuckled, and maneuvered them both under the covers. “Go to sleep, Clint. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Clint felt his eyes drift close as Phil shifted his pillow closer to Clint. “Sir,” he said sleepily, already halfway gone. “Yes, sir.”


	6. Epilogue

Unfortunately, Clint really did have to report to Davidson in the morning. He went in alone, leaving Phil to compose his own version of the report to Fury. Clint knew that report, at least, would be kept Security Level Nine. 

Clint glared at Davidson when the man wanted details about his inside accomplice.

“It was a member of my regular team who I did not expect to be there,” Clint said in the coldest tone he could manage. It was pretty damn frosty. “End of discussion.”

The smirk on Davidson’s face died a swift death, and Clint wondered if the man had finally clued in to who exactly he’d recruited for this op. 

Clint signed the paperwork he needed to complete in record time and stormed out of Davidson’s office before he could get details of what happened after Belanger left the scene. Phil filled him in later that night.

“They followed the tracker and found Belanger making the deal,” Phil told him as he grated cheese. Clint was kneading the pizza dough, because Phil had already proved his cooking skills were limited. He was now in charge of the sharp things, and had a neat pile of green and red peppers diced in a bowl. 

“He was cutting his stash with over-the-counter chemicals, as suspected, and the DEA managed to catch him with some of his associates as well. They think his arrest is going to lead to a nation-wide bust. Davidson will probably get a raise.”

Clint shook his head as he dusted the countertop with flour. “While we get a pat on the back and a week’s vacation,” he said to Phil. “Seems fair to me.”

Phil smiled and leaned forward to kiss the flour from Clint’s nose. “Absolutely fair.” He took the pile of mushrooms and started slicing. “The Director sends us his congratulations, by the way,” he said over his shoulder. 

Clint’s hands paused on the dough. “He what?” 

Phil’s smile was wicked. “In regards to the case, of course.” 

Clint felt his shoulders unfreeze. “Of course,” he drawled and went back to his dough. He punched it a few times, then started rolling it out. “So he planned the entire thing, or what?” he asked, faux casual.

Phil chuckled from behind him. “I think he knew I would be in the area,” he admitted. “Nick has never appreciated unresolved sexual tension – says it gives him hives.”

Clint didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the idea that _Director Fury_ had been aware of the tension between them. He settled for shaking his head. “I feel dirty on the inside.” 

Phil turned and wrapped his arms around his chest. Clint leaned back into his warm embrace. “You can feel dirty on the inside _and_ the outside, if you like,” he murmured into his ear.

Clint shivered and tipped his head forward, allowing Phil access to the tender skin under his ear. “I have the olive oil I was going to use on the pizza,” he said.

Phil laughed and bit down hard. “It’s a date.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Glitter in the Air](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1257070) by [Cup_aTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cup_aTea/pseuds/Cup_aTea)
  * [Let It Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285333) by [cakeisnotpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie)




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